was as if a happy little spirit
had tried to follow him, for love of him, from a country lying close,
yet separated; it was as if the common childhood of the two made it
almost possible for them to meet; as if a message that might not be
spoken, were yet almost delivered.

The third time the dream came it was a December morning of the year when
Philip was fifteen, and falling snow made wavering light and shadow on
the wall where hung the picture. This time, with eyes wide open, yet
with the possession of the dream strongly on him, he lay sub-consciously
alert and gazed, as in the odd, unmistakable dress that Philip knew now
in detail, the bright-faced child swung toward him, always from the
garden of that old place, always trying with loving, merry efforts to
reach Philip from out of it--always holding to him the red-ribboned key.
Like a wary hunter the big boy lay--knowing it unreal, yet living it
keenly--and watched his chance. As the little figure glided close to him
he put out his hand suddenly, swiftly for the key--he was awake. As
always, the dream was gone; the little ghost was baffled again; the two
worlds might not meet.

That day Mrs. Beckwith, putting in order an old mahogany secretary,
showed him a drawer full of photographs, daguerrotypes. The boy and his
gay young mother were the best of friends, for, only nineteen when he
was born, she had never let the distance widen between them; had held
the freshness of her youth sacred against the time when he should share
it. Year by year, living in his enthusiasms, drawing him to hers, she
had grown young in his childhood, which year by year came closer to her
maturity. Until now there was between the tall, athletic lad and the
still young and attractive woman, an equal friendship, a common youth,
which gave charm and elasticity to the natural tie between them. Yet
even to this comrade-mother the boy had not told his dream, for the
difficulty of putting into words the atmosphere, the compelling power of
it. So that when she opened one of the old-fashioned black cases which
held the early sun-pictures, and showed him the portrait within, he
startled her by a sudden exclamation. From the frame of red velvet and
tarnished gilt there laughed up at him the little boy of his dream.
There was no mistaking him, and if there were doubt about the face,
there was the peculiar dress--the black and white plaid with large
squares of black velvet sewed here and there as decorati