A DREAM
It is midnight--my narrative is finished. As the pen drops from my
hand the weary eyes close and I sleep.
The living room in our bungalow. Before the great stone fire-place
sitting side by side, my wife and I. Her hand rests in mine as we
gaze into the flames ascending from the fragrant logs resting on the
massive wrought-iron andirons. These and the caribou head looking
down on us from above the high mantel came from the hall at "Redstone."
The chime rings out as in the days long gone by from the dear old
clock re-purchased from Charlie Wood.
As we look around the room in the soft fire-light we see the few
old friends left from that awful slaughter when our household gods
were sold; and best of all, in the low shelves at one end of the
room are the dearly loved volumes, all that remain of our once fine
library.
[Illustration: "Redstone"--The Hall]
We leave our chairs, and going arm-in-arm to the window stand
watching the moon rise out of the sea. All is peace and contentment
in this modest home wherein we plan to end our days, for at last
we have found rest.
The maid comes in the room, lights the lamps, draws the draperies
over the windows and again we are alone. From my writing-table I
take up the letter received from my publishers by the last mail.
It has been read and re-read, but again I read it aloud. It tells
such good news.
From the profits of my book I have already satisfied my creditors,
repaid Mrs. Slater, bought our home and secured a moderate income.
"Still," the publishers write, "there seems no end to the demand
for 'Romance and Tragedy'"; and they enclose a handsome cheque,
one of many that have reached me.
My wife kisses me and--I awaken.
'Tis but a dream--will it come true?
The public must decide.