“Did you ever see the girl again?” I asked softly.

The General turned on me a quick, queer look.  Fun was in it, and memory gave it gentleness; yet there was impatience, too, at my slowness, in the boyish brown eyes.

“Mrs. Carruthers has red hair,” he said briefly.

THROUGH THE IVORY GATE

Breeze-filtered through shifting leafage, the June morning sunlight came in at the open window by the boy’s bed, under the green shades, across the shadowy, white room, and danced a noiseless dance of youth and freshness and springtime against the wall opposite.  The boy’s head stirred on his pillow.  He spoke a quick word from out of his dream.  “The key?” he said inquiringly, and the sound of his own voice awoke him.  Dark, drowsy eyes opened, and he stared half seeing, at the picture that hung facing him.  Was it the play of mischievous sunlight, was it the dream that still held his brain?  He knew the picture line by line, and there was no such figure in it.  It was a large photograph of Fairfield, the Southern home of his mother’s people, and the boy remembered it always hanging there, opposite his bed, the first sight to meet his eyes every morning since his babyhood.  So he was certain there was no figure in it, more than all one so remarkable as this strapping little chap in his queer clothes; his dress of conspicuous plaid with large black velvet squares sewed on it, who stood now in front of the old manor-house.  Could it be only a dream?  Could it be that a little ghost, wandering childlike in dim, heavenly fields, had joined the gay troop of his boyish visions and shipped in with them through the ivory gate of pleasant dreams?  The boy put his fists to his eyes and rubbed them and looked again.  The little fellow was still there, standing with sturdy legs wide apart as if owning the scene; he laughed as he held toward the boy a key—­a small key tied with a scarlet ribbon.  There was no doubt in the boy’s mind that the key was for him, and out of the dim world of sleep he stretched his young arm for it; to reach it he sat up in bed.  Then he was awake and knew himself alone in the peace of his own little room, and laughed shamefacedly at the reality of the vision which had followed him from dreamland into the very boundaries of consciousness, which held him even now with gentle tenacity, which drew him back through the day, from his studies, from his play, into the strong current of its fascination.

The first time Philip Beckwith had this dream he was only twelve years old, and, withheld by the deep reserve of childhood, he told not even his mother about it, though he lived in its atmosphere all day and remembered it vividly days longer.  A year after it came again; and again it was a June morning, and as his eyes opened the little boy came once more out of the picture toward him, laughing and holding out the key on its scarlet string.  The dream was a pleasant one, and Philip