between them permanently, "I think I must have been dreaming and you
crashed right in. I--I--"

"Are you sure you are not the dream itself--just come true?" demanded the
poet in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were asking the time of day or
the trail home.

"I don't think I am, in fact I'm sure," she answered with a break in her
curled lips. "The dream is a bridge, a beautiful bridge, and I've been
seeing it grow for minutes and minutes. One end of it rests down there
by that broken log--see where the little knoll swells up from the
field?--and it stretches in a beautiful strong arch until it seems to cut
across that broken-backed old hill in the distance. And then it falls
across--but I don't know where to put the other end of it--the ground
sinks so--it might wobble. I don't want my bridge to wobble."

Her tone was expressive of a real distress as she looked at him in
appealing confusion. And in his eyes she found the dawn of an amused
wonder, almost consternation. Slowly over his face there spread a deep
flush and his lips were indrawn with a quick breath.

"Wait a minute, I'll show you," he said in almost an undertone. He swung
himself across the creek on a couple of stones, climbed up the boulder
and seated himself at her side. Then he drew a sketch-book from his
pocket and spread it open on the slab before them.

There it was--the dream bridge! It rose in a fine strong curve from the
little knoll, spanned across the distant ridge and fell to the opposite
bank on to a broad support that braced itself against a rock ledge. It
was as fine a perspective sketch as ever came from the pencil of an