"My own dear little boy."
And then her arms crushing you to her breast; and then her lips; and then her voice again—
"Once in this very garden, in this very seat, Mother sat dreaming of you."
"Of me, Mother?"
"Of you. Here in the garden, with that very bush there red with blossoms, and the birds singing in these very trees. She dreamed that you were a little baby—a little baby, warm and soft in her arms—and while the wind sang to the flowers Mother sang you a lullaby, and you stretched out your hands to her and smiled; and then—ah, darling!"
"But it was a dream, Mother."
"It was only a dream—yes—but it came true. It came true on a night in June—the First of June, it was—"
"My birthday, Mother!"
"Your birthday, dear."
"Oh, Mother," you said, breathlessly—"what a beautiful dream!"