anything to tell, and perhaps it will not convey anything to you. But it
has been part of my life--that time when I was Out on the Hillside. That
is what I call The Dream to myself, 'Out on the Hillside,' as if it were
a kind of unearthly poem. But it wasn't. It was more real than anything
I have ever felt. It was real--real! I wish that I could tell it so that
you would know how real it was."

I felt almost piteous in my longing to make her know. I knew she was
afraid of something, and if I could make her know how REAL that one
brief dream had been she would not be afraid any more. And I loved her,
I loved her so much!

"I was asleep one night at Muircarrie," I went on, "and suddenly,
without any preparatory dreaming, I was standing out on a hillside
in moonlight softer and more exquisite than I had ever seen or known
before. Perhaps I was still in my nightgown--I don't know. My feet were
bare on the grass, and I wore something light and white which did not
seem to touch me. If it touched me I did not feel it. My bare feet did
not feel the grass; they only knew it was beneath them.

"It was a low hill I stood on, and I was only on the side of it. And in
spite of the thrilling beauty of the moon, all but the part I stood on
melted into soft, beautiful shadow, all below me and above me. But I did
not turn to look at or ask myself about anything. You see the difficulty
is that there are no earthly words to tell it! All my being was
ecstasy--pure, light ecstasy! Oh, what poor words-- But I know no
others. If I said that I was happy--HAPPY!--it would be nothing. I WAS
happiness itself, I WAS pure rapture! I did not look at the beauty of
the night, the sky, the marvelous melting shadow. I was PART of it
all, one with it. Nothing held me nothing! The beauty of the night, the