In this mood I fell asleep, and on a sudden I found myself in a dear
New England garden. The pillow slipped away, and my cheek pressed a
fragrant mound of mignonette, the self-same one on which I hid my
tear-stained face and sobbed my heart out in childish grief and
longing for the mother who would never hold me again. The moon came
up over the Belvern Hills and shone on my half-closed lids; but to
me it was a very different moon, the far-away moon of my childhood,
with a river rippling beneath its silver rays. And the wind that
rustled among the poplar branches outside my window was, in my
dream, stirring the pink petals of a blossoming apple-tree that used
to grow beside the bank of mignonette, wafting down sweet odours and
drinking in sweeter ones. And presently there stole in upon this
harmony of enchanting sounds and delicate fragrances, in which
childhood and womanhood, pleasure and pain, memory and anticipation,
seemed strangely intermingled, the faint music of a voice, growing
clearer and clearer as my ear became familiar with its cadences.
And what the dream voice said to me was something like this:-

'If thou wouldst have happiness, choose neither fame, which doth not
long abide, nor power, which stings the hand that wields it, nor
gold, which glitters but never glorifies; but choose thou Love, and
hold it for ever in thy heart of hearts; for Love is the purest and
the mightiest force in the universe, and once it is thine all other
gifts shall be added unto thee. Love that is passionate yet
reverent, tender yet strong, selfish in desiring all yet generous in
giving all; love of man for woman and woman for man, of parent for
child and friend for friend--when this is born in the soul, the
desert blossoms as the rose. Straightway new hopes and wishes,
sweet longings and pure ambitions, spring into being, like green