It is a fine, airy, silver wine, such as fairies may drink at
their revels, unharmed of it; but when a mere mortal sips of it,
it mounts straightway to his brain, to the undoing of his daylight
common sense. However, I have got neither cold nor rheumatism, as
a sensible person would have done had he ever been lured into
doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a special Providence for
us foolish folk. I enjoyed my night in the orchard; for a time I
was companioned by sweet old memories; and then I fell asleep
listening to the murmurs of the wind in those old trees yonder.
And I had a beautiful dream, Janet. I dreamed that the old
orchard blossomed again, as it did that spring eighteen years ago.
I dreamed that its sunshine was the sunshine of spring, not
autumn. There was newness of life in my dream, Janet, and the
sweetness of forgotten words."
"Wasn't it strange about MY dream?" whispered the Story Girl to me.
"Well, you'd better come in and have some breakfast," said Aunt
Janet. "These are my little girls--Felicity and Cecily."
"I remember them as two most adorable tots," said Uncle Blair,
shaking hands. "They haven't changed quite so much as my own
baby-child. Why, she's a woman, Janet--she's a woman."
"She's child enough still," said Aunt Janet hastily.
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