"And if it had I think it would have melted away because of a dream I
once had. I don't really believe it was a dream, but I call it one. I
think I really went somewhere and came back. I often wonder why I
came back. It was only a short dream, so simple that there is scarcely
anything to tell, and perhaps it will not convey anything to you. But it
has been part of my life--that time when I was Out on the Hillside. That
is what I call The Dream to myself, 'Out on the Hillside,' as if it were
a kind of unearthly poem. But it wasn't. It was more real than anything
I have ever felt. It was real--real! I wish that I could tell it so that
you would know how real it was."
I felt almost piteous in my longing to make her know. I knew she was
afraid of something, and if I could make her know how REAL that one
brief dream had been she would not be afraid any more. And I loved her,
I loved her so much!
"I was asleep one night at Muircarrie," I went on, "and suddenly,
without any preparatory dreaming, I was standing out on a hillside
in moonlight softer and more exquisite than I had ever seen or known
before. Perhaps I was still in my nightgown--I don't know. My feet were
bare on the grass, and I wore something light and white which did not
seem to touch me. If it touched me I did not feel it. My bare feet did
not feel the grass; they only knew it was beneath them.
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