one, who would do that?"

John raised his head, and looked long and earnestly in his friend's
face. "Of course, I know you are only in fun," he said, at last,
"because dreams don't really come true; but--but that _was_ my dream,
you know! I think I've dreamed you all my life. At least--well, I never
knew just what you looked like, or how you would come; but I always
dreamed that some one would come from the sea, and that I should hear
about the shells, and know what they were saying when they talk; and--"
he paused; but the Skipper patted his shoulder gently, in sign that he
understood.

"And--what else, Juan Colorado?" he asked, in what seemed the kindest
voice in the world. But the boy John hung his head, and seemed loth to
go on.

"There--there was another part to what I dreamed," he said at last. "I
guess I won't tell that, please, 'cause, of course, you were only in
fun."

"And what the harm to tell it," said the Skipper, lightly, "even if it
come not true? Dreams are pretty things; my faith, I love to dream mine
self. Tell thy friend, Colorado! tell the dream, all the wholeness of
it."

There was no resisting the deep, sweet voice. The little boy raised his
head again, and looked frankly into the kind, dark eyes.

"I used to dream that I was taken away!" he said, in a low voice.

"Away? Good!" the Skipper repeated.

"Away," the boy murmured, and his voice grew soft and dreamy. "Away from
the land, and the fields where the grass dries up so soon, and winter
comes before you are ready to be cold. Some one would come and take me
in a ship, and I should live always on the water, and it would rock me
like a cradle, and I should feel as if I had always lived there. And I
should see the flying-fish and dolphins, and know how the corals grow,
and see things under the sea. And nobody would beat me then, and I
should not have to split wood when it makes my back ache. That was the
other part of my dream."

The Skipper laid his hand lightly on the child's head and smoothed back
the red curls. "Who knows?" he said, with a smile. "Who knows what may
come of dreams, Colorado? Here the one-half is come true, already at
this time. Why not the other?" He turned away as if to change the
subject, and took up a piece of the white branching coral that lay at
his elbow. "When I gather this," he said in a lighter tone, "it was a
day in the last year; I remember well that day! A storm had been, and
still the sea was rough a