It was to be filled by that
childless Mother the writer's imagination had discovered or created.
And again the Pleiades lit up his inner world and beckoned to him with
their little fingers of spun gold; their eyes of clouded amber smiled
into his own. It was most extraordinary and delightful. There was
something--come much closer this time, almost within reach of
discovery--something he ought to remember about them, something he had
promised to remember, then stupidly forgotten. The lost, hidden joy
was a torture. Yet, try as he would, no revelation came to clear the
matter up. Had he read it somewhere perhaps? Or was it part of the
Story his cousin had wumbled into his ear when he only partly
listened?
'I believe I dreamed it,' he smiled to himself at last in despair. 'I
do believe it was a dream--a fragment of some jolly dream I had in my
Fairyland of little Bourcelles!'
Children, stars, Fairyland, dreams--these brought it somehow. His
cousin's story also had to do with it, chiefly perhaps after all--this
great story.
'I shall have to go back there to get hold of it completely,' he added
with conviction. He almost felt as if some one were thinking hard
about him--one of the characters in the story, it seemed. The mind of
some one far away, as yet unknown, was searching for him in thought,
sending forth strong definite yearnings which came to rest of their
own accord in his own being, a garden naturally suited to their
growth.
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