In dreams—
“Now, Aunt Ellen, go on.”
“Yassum, but I’m bleeg’d ter tell yer de kitchen b’iler’s leakin’.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I started for the kitchen, then remembered: “Go tell the man working on the furnace to fix it,—and remember, no dress for you if you keep interrupting me.” Once more to the fire I turned, trying to conjure back the nursery, bedtime, Mammy, or anything. I bit my pencil and read once more:
In dreams I see thee bending o’er me,
To the old plantation home we rove,
Where—
“Miss Sa’, dat man say he ain’ got nuthin’ ter do wid kitch’n fixin’s.—He say he’s er furniss man. An’ Tom done cut de wat’r off, an’ I can’t git dinn’r tell de plumb’r come.”
A prolonged telephonic agony ensued with the plumber, which entirely dispelled the charm I had half invoked. On the way back to the library, I heard Tom at the front door: “Yassum, dat’s her, but she’s pow’ful busy ter day.” The next moment Tom’s tall figure appeared at the library door, and over his shoulder peered the taller one of a woman whose masculine features were shaded by a hat of garish variety.
“I simply could not pass without recalling myself to you, and getting one more peep,” exclaimed my visitor as she brushed past Tom, “into this old-fashioned library with shelves up to the ceiling.”
“Will you have this seat?” I murmured, trying to recall a previous meeting.
“Oh, no, I’ll just sit in this seat in the corner.”