married old pair of brass-headed hearth tongs that a boy in his teens
should have bought them at auction and then have carried them to
college with him, rattling about on the bottom of his trunk? For it
was not an over-packed trunk. There were the tongs on the bottom and a
thirty-cent edition of "The Natural History of Selborne" on the
top--that is all. That is all the boy remembers. These two things, at
least, are all that now remain out of the trunkful he started with from
home--the tongs for sentiment, and for friendship the book.

"Are you listening?" she asks, looking up to see if I have gone to
sleep.

"Yes, I 'm listening."

"And dreaming?"

"Yes, dreaming a little, too,--of you, dear, and the tongs there, and
the boys upstairs, and the storm outside, and the fire, and of this
sweet room,--an old, old dream that I had years and years ago,--all
come true, and more than true."

She slipped her hand into mine.

"Shall I go on?"

"Yes, go on, please, and I will listen--and, if you don't mind, dream a
little, too, perhaps."

There is something in the fire and the rise and fall of her voice,
something so infinitely soothing in its tones, and in Lamb, and in such