But, before all this splendor of material could be built up into words,
the builder had departed, the river fairy had melted back and away into
her native mist, and Tot never knew.

That night, Will tossed Tot flying once more into the air, rescued once
more his fresh collar from her crumpling embrace, kissed her once more,
good-by this time, and was off and away on the cars to school. No more
stories. No more fairies. No more anything. Only a wonderful river
winding and gleaming and leaping through Tot's childish
dreams--beautiful, wonderful "Soogar Wiver," where happy Uncle Will went
fishing, lying on the bed of rock candy.

One morning, all in the gray and quiet, Tot had a queer dream. She
thought some one said, with a funny little catch in the voice: "Wake up,
little Tot, mamma's treasure," and some one held her so tightly she
could hardly breathe. And she opened her eyes and shut them again, quite
dazzled; but she thought she saw papa and mamma standing beside her bed,
and the room was all on fire it was so bright to two, poor, sleepy, baby
eyes, and papa's voice seemed to say, a great way off:

"Poor, little, sleepy Tot."

It was such a queer dream, but not half so queer as what followed; for,
after a while, she woke up and went right on dreaming just the same.
That was very strange. How could it be anything else than a dream, to be
taken up by gaslight and dressed all in her little street coat and hat
before breakfast, to be made to drink milk and eat when she wasn't
hungry, to be petted and cried over and half crushed in mamma's arms, to
be taken by papa out into the cool, clear dawning, with the sky just
beginning to flush like a sea shell and a waking bird or two to twitter