And the mother, turning her face to mine, so that I see the moisture in her eye, and catch its heavenly look, whispers softly—so softly that an angel might have said it—“Yes, dear, we will be THERE!” * * * * * The night had now come, and my day under the oaks was ended. But a crimson belt yet lingered over the horizon, though the stars were out. A line of shaggy mist lay along the surface of the brook. I took my gun from beside the tree, and my shot-pouch from its limb, and, whistling for Carlo—as if it had been Tray—I strolled over the bridge, and down the lane, to the old house under the elms. I dreamed pleasant dreams that night—for I dreamed that my reverie was real. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Transcriber’s note: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book.