Then an incident occurred which changed, not me, perhaps, but the
complexion of my dream.
One afternoon, at low tide, I wandered down to the beach and ensconced
myself comfortably, with book and shawl, on the roof of Steeple Rock. The
rock was an old acquaintance of mine by this time.
There was a group of children playing, a little farther down the beach.
My eyes turned ever to them from the written page, following them with a
languid pleasure, as they revelled in the sand at the water's edge with
their bare brown feet and legs. I had a sense of safety, too, in their
proximity. I knew that they generally returned home passing by the place
where I was.
It was warm on the rock. I was very tired. As I lay there, I became only
conscious, at length, that my book was slipping out of my hand, and down
the shelving side of the rock, and I was too listless to attempt to
reclaim it. I heard a little, dull thud on the ground below, and a faint
flutter of leaves--and the long, white beach, the ragged cliffs, the
laughing children, had faded from my sight.
Then I dreamed, indeed, in the ordinary sense of the word; I was back
again in Newtown, in my own home, in my own white bed, and I was very
glad, looking at the pictures on the wall, and out on the familiar hills.
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