She hopped to the tree.
"Come--eat!" she cried. And they nestled together amid the big black
roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate.
"What's over there?" he asked pointing northward.
"Cresswell's big house."
"And yonder to the west?"
"The school."
He started joyfully.
"The school! What school?"
"Old Miss' School."
"Miss Smith's school?"
"Yes." The tone was disdainful.
"Why, that's where I'm going. I was a-feared it was a long way off; I
must have passed it in the night."
"I hate it!" cried the girl, her lips tense.
"But I'll be so near," he explained. "And why do you hate it?"
"Yes--you'll be near," she admitted; "that'll be nice; but--" she
glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face
again, and she sat once more dreaming.
"Yon way's nicest," she said.
"Why, what's there?"
"The swamp," she said mysteriously.
"And what's beyond the swamp?"
She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones: "Dreams!"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Dreams?" vaguely--"dreams? Why, dreams ain't--nothing."
"Oh, yes they is!" she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as
she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. "Yes they is! There
ain't nothing but dreams--that is, nothing much.
"And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams, piled
high and burning; and right amongst them the sun, when he's tired o'
night, whispers and drops red things, 'cept when devils make 'em black.
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