"My Dream!" she answered, and they sat down. She nestled in his arms, and there was silence enfolding both of them.
Rain was Red Indian, of the Blackfoot nation, whose home is on the plains beside the World-Spine. Maid she was, and yet her dress that of a warrior, a deerskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins all tawny golden, the leather cut in thongs, long fringes of them about the shoulders, and along the seams. Quills dyed vermilion, violet, and lemon were set in patterns of delicate embroidery upon the breast, the shoulder straps, and the tongues of the soft skin shoes. A fringed and broidered quiver of stonehead arrows was slung on her back, a bag to hold a sacred talisman hung from her belt.
The dress was beautiful to illustrate youth, lithe, wholesome strength and grace, the clear-cut loveliness of a face colored like glowing bronze, the fearless gallantry of bearing, the spiritual purity and power.
The maid lived in the uttermost solitudes of the mountain wilderness, the lad was a bargee plying on London River. On earth they were worlds apart, and had never met, but here in Dreamland were joined together from earliest childhood in the strong bonds of a love untarnished by the world.
Bill's Dreamland name was Storms-all-of-a-sudden.
"Storm," she said wistfully, "I was calling and calling you ever so long."
"I had to wait," he answered. "After dinner on Sundays mother wants me. We go into the fields, and she prays, while I sleeps. Then I come quick."
"Storm," she said, "this is the last time that your mother will pray in the fields down there on earth. The spirits are calling her home."
"She is to die, then?"
"Her animal body is to die, dear."