‚ÄúYes‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll be near,‚Äù she admitted; ‚Äúthat‚Äôll be nice; but‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù she glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face again, and she sat once more dreaming.
“Yon way’s nicest,” she said.
“Why, what’s there?”
“The swamp,” she said mysteriously.
“And what’s beyond the swamp?”
She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones: “Dreams!”
He looked at her, puzzled.
‚ÄúDreams?‚Äù vaguely‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúdreams? Why, dreams ain‚Äôt‚ÅÝ‚Äînothing.‚Äù
‚ÄúOh, yes they is!‚Äù she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. ‚ÄúYes they is! There ain‚Äôt nothing but dreams‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat is, nothing much.
“And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams, piled high and burning; and right amongst them the sun, when he’s tired o’ night, whispers and drops red things, ’cept when devils make ’em black.”
The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to jeer or wonder.
“How you know?” he asked at last, skeptically.
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“Yes,” he answered.