"Thou'rt better here than in that dreadful place," said the nurse, stroking his hair.
"Yes—but Beale. I know he's waiting there. I wish I could bring him here."
"Not yet," said the nurse surprisingly; "'tis not easy to bring those we love from one dream to another."
"One dream to another?"
"Didst never hear that all life is a dream?" she asked him. "But thou shalt go. Heaven forbid that one of thy race should fail a friend. Look! there are fresh sheets on thy bed. Lie still and think of him that was good to thee."
He lay there, very still. He had decided to wake up—to wake up to the old, hard, cruel life—to poverty, dulness, lameness. There was no other thing to be done. He must wake up and keep his promise to Beale. But it was hard—hard—hard. The beautiful house, the beautiful garden, the games, the boat-building, the soft clothes, the kind people, the uplifting sense that he was Somebody . . . yet he must go. Yes, if he could he would.
The nurse had taken burning wood from the hearth and set it on a silver plate. Now she strewed something on the glowing embers.
"Lie straight and still," she said, "and wish thyself where thou wast when thou leftest that dream."
He did so. A thick, sweet smoke rose from the little fire in the silver plate, and
