Alice was dressing or she would have been sooner on the scene with the historic words of outraged parenthood upon her lips:
"I should like to know the meaning of this!"
"I only told him my dream," said Sara now in tears, "and he shoved me against the fence. I only told him my dream, and now he says he'll never speak to me again."
Robert stood by, darkly disapproving.
"Yes, and what was it you told him?"
Through her tears Sara smiled. Mischief gleamed in her eyes; her finger went to her lips.
"You tell," she urged her brother.
"I won't tell it," said Robert.
"What happened?" Alice demanded. "What was it all about?"
Then said Robert: "I don't blame him for anything he threw—only he ought to have thrown them at Sara."
Here Alice's patience reached its limit.
"What I want to know," she said, addressing her daughter, "is what it's all about?"
"Yes, tell her—tell her!" urged her brother, with deep and outraged bitterness.
"I was walking by the fence with Bill," said Sara. "I'd just told him a dream, and then" Grief again overwhelmed her as well as tears.
"But what had you told him to make him shove you against the fence?" Robert insisted.
"What was it?" Alice wanted to know.
With limpid innocence Sara told them all.
"I had a dream," she said. "You remember Grandma was in and I said to her why was it we couldn't have Christmas when it was fall, and she told me about the Holly and Mistletoe and the Star of Bethlehem, and everything. And I had a lovely dream."
