was remembering the
dream--the real--real dream.

"In the garden!" he said, wondering at himself. "In the garden! But the
door is locked and the key is buried deep."

When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one
lying at the top of the rest was an English letter and came from
Yorkshire. It was directed in a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand
he knew. He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first
words attracted his attention at once.

"_Dear Sir:_

"I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to you
once on the moor. It was about Miss Mary I spoke.
I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir, I
would come home if I was you. I think you would be
glad to come and--if you will excuse me, sir--I
think your lady would ask you to come if she was
here.

"Your obedient servant,
"SUSAN SOWERBY."

Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.
He kept thinking about the dream.

"I will go back to Misselthwaite," he said. "Yes, I'll go at once."

And he went through the garden to the villa and ordered Pitcher to
prepare for his return to England.

* * * * *

In a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his long railroad
journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in
all the ten years past. During those years he had only wished to forget
him. Now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him
constantly drifted into his mind. He remembered the black days when he
had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was
dead. He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at
last it had been such a weak wretched thing that every one had been sure
it would die in a few days. But to the surprise of those who took care
of it the days passed and it lived and then every one believed it would
be a deformed and crippled creature.

He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father
at all. He had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had
shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his
own misery. The first time after a year's absence he returned to
Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and
indifferently lifted to his face the great