“‘A baby!  A baby rose!’ shrieked all the flowers.

“‘And it means,’ a bluebell said, stepping perkily out from amidst its fellows, ’that your lover is coming—­your lover with a troll-le-loll-la—­and—­well, if you want to know more ask the gooseberries, the gooseberries that hang on the bushes, or the parsley that grows in the bed,’—­and at that all the flowers and trees shrieked with laughter—­’Ta-ta-tra-la-la’—­and with my ears full of the rude laughter of the wood I awoke.  What do you think of it?  Isn’t it rather a quaint mixture of the—­of the sacred—­at least the artistic—­and the profane?”

“Quite so,” said Miss Templeton with an amused chuckle, “but I shouldn’t ask for an interpretation of it if I were you.”

“Not for an interpretation of the trees and flowers?” Gladys asked innocently.  “I’m sure trees and flowers have a special significance in dreams.”

“Very well then, my dear, ask Mrs. Sprat.”

“What! ask the Vicar’s wife!” Gladys ejaculated, “when I never go to church.”

“Certainly,” Miss Templeton replied, laughing again, “Mrs. Sprat will quite understand.  And I’ve always been told she is very interested in anything to do with the Occult.  But hush!  Here’s your father.  You’d better not tell him your dream.  He’s tired to death, he says, of hearing about your lovers, and agrees with me—­there’s no end to them.”

“Never mind what he says—­his bark’s worse then his bite,” Gladys rejoined, “he doesn’t really care how many I have so long as they keep within bounds, and I like them!  Father!”

John Martin, who entered the room at that moment, went straight to his daughter to be kissed.

“I wish you wouldn’t always select that bald spot,” he said testily, “I don’t want to be everlastingly reminded I’m losing my hair.”

“Where do you want me to kiss you, then?” Gladys argued, “on the tip of your nose?  That’s all very well for you, John Martin, but I prefer the top of your head.  But the poor dear looks worried, what is it?”

“I didn’t have a very good night,” her father replied, “I dreamed a lot!” Gladys looked at Miss Templeton and laughed.

“Did you?” she said gently.  “What a shame!  I never dream.  What was it all about?”

“Flowers!” John Martin snapped, “idiotic flowers!  Roses, lilac, tulips!  Bah!  I do wish you would have some other hobby.”

Gladys looked at her aunt again, this time with a half serious, half questioning expression.

“Shall I be a politician?” she cooed, “and fill the house with suffragettes?  You bad man, I believe you would revel in it.  Don’t you think so, Auntie?”

“I think, instead of teasing your father so unmercifully, you had better pour him out a cup of tea,” Miss Templeton replied.  “Jack, there’s a letter for you.”