there goes a hydroplane."

The two young people hung out the open window. The old man was
absorbed, too. He had at last worked his fingers along the entire
length of the mummy's right wrist. It was dry and hard as any mummy he
had ever seen, but it bore neither bracelet nor any ornament whatever.

"Well," he said, reluctantly, "it was all a dream, interesting but not
important. Like Polly's dream, it was just the echo of something I
have read or seen."

"Oh, pshaw! What are dreams, anyway?" muttered Harry, with
impatience.

"Dreams," said Pauline, authoritatively, "dreams are the bubbles which
rise to the surface of the mind when it cools down in sleep."

"Now," observed Harry, quietly, "when you and father are through
talking about mummies and dreams I wish you would consider something
that I am interested in. I'd like to know how soon you are going to
marry me?"

"Where did you get that definition of dreams, Polly?" asked the old
man.

"From my story," said Pauline, proudly.

Both men at once remembered that she had gone to find the magazine and
show them her first story. They eagerly demanded to see it.