He heard distinctly, but he did not open his eyes. He had learned that opening your eyes drives beautiful things away. The dream had come back. If he kept perfectly still and didn't breathe, it might all begin again. He might feel-- He felt it. It folded him in like a warm shawl,--it brushed his forehead, his cheek, his lips,--it made him dizzy with happiness. He lay among his cushions, folded up in it. Oh, it made up,--it made up, just as it had in the other dream! "You Dear Little Boy Whose Legs Won't Go!"--he did not catch anything but the first four words; he must have breathed and lost the rest. But the tone was all there. He wanted to ask her if she had brought the Rec-om-pense, but it was such a risk to speak. He thought if he kept on lying quite still he should find out. Perhaps in a minute-- "You think he will let me love him, Morris? Say you think he will!" Morris was Dadsy's other name. Things were getting very strange. "Because I must! Perhaps it will make up a very little if I fold him all up in my love." "Fold him up"--that was what the warm shawl had done, and the name of the warm shawl had been Rec-om-pense. Was there another name to it? Morry opened his eyes and gazed up wonderingly into the face of the step-one.--It was a Real One's face, and the other name was written on it. "Why, it's Love!" breathed Morry. He felt a little dizzy, but he wanted to laugh, he was so happy. He wanted to tell her--he must. "It makes up--oh yes, it makes up!" he cried, softly. End of Project Gutenberg's The Very Small Person, by Annie Hamilton Donnell