The old woman stood a moment longer and then turned to go into the house.  What she had not seen was that the girl was not only young, but lithe and shapely as a sculptor’s model; that her bare feet seemed to spurn the earth as they struck it; that though brown, she was not so brown but that her cheek was darkly red with the blood of another race than that which gave her her name and station in life; and the old woman did not see that Cicely’s face was as comely as her figure was superb, and that her eyes were dreamy with vague yearnings.

Cicely climbed the low fence between the garden and the cornfield, and started down one of the long rows leading directly away from the house.  Old Needham was a good ploughman, and straight as an arrow ran the furrow between the rows of corn, until it vanished in the distant perspective.  The peas were planted beside alternate hills of corn, the cornstalks serving as supports for the climbing pea-vines.  The vines nearest the house had been picked more or less clear of the long green pods, and Cicely walked down the row for a quarter of a mile, to where the peas were more plentiful.  And as she walked she thought of her dream of the night before.

She had dreamed a beautiful dream.  The fact that it was a beautiful dream, a delightful dream, her memory retained very vividly.  She was troubled because she could not remember just what her dream had been about.  Of one other fact she was certain, that in her dream she had found something, and that her happiness had been bound up with the thing she had found.  As she walked down the corn-row she ran over in her mind the various things with which she had always associated happiness.  Had she found a gold ring?  No, it was not a gold ring—­of that she felt sure.  Was it a soft, curly plume for her hat?  She had seen town people with them, and had indulged in day-dreams on the subject; but it was not a feather.  Was it a bright-colored silk dress?  No; as much as she had always wanted one, it was not a silk dress.  For an instant, in a dream, she had tasted some great and novel happiness, and when she awoke it was dashed from her lips, and she could not even enjoy the memory of it, except in a vague, indefinite, and tantalizing way.

Cicely was troubled, too, because dreams were serious things.  Dreams had certain meanings, most of them, and some dreams went by contraries.  If her dream had been a prophecy of some good thing, she had by forgetting it lost the pleasure of anticipation.  If her dream had been one of those that go by contraries, the warning would be in vain, because she would not know against what evil to provide.  So, with a sigh, Cicely said to herself that it was a troubled world, more or less; and having come to a promising point, began to pick the tenderest pea-pods and throw them into her basket.

By the time she had reached the end of the line the basket was nearly full.  Glancing toward the pine woods beyond the rail fence, she saw a brier bush loaded with large, luscious blackberries.  Cicely was fond of blackberries, so she set her basket down, climbed the fence, and was soon busily engaged in gathering the fruit, delicious even in its wild state.