"That's my real life," replied she. "I go through the other part just to
get to the dreams."

"What do you dream?"

She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seem
foolish to you."

"You're mistaken there," cried he. "The only thing that ever has
interested me in life is dreams--and making them come true."

"But not _my_ kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones that
couldn't possibly come true."

"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true."

She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?"

"The wildest ones are often the easiest." He had a moving voice himself,
and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he was
deeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquer
men of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is your
dream?--happiness? . . . love?"

She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like a
brave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes," she said under her breath.
"But it could never--never come true. It's too perfect."

"Don't doubt," he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm of
the cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't ever