feel really interested in the little every-day
happenings of "the road." But this was not so. The present was after all
the real thing. The dreams could wait. The knowledge that they were
there, waiting, made all the ordinary things more beautiful and more
interesting. The feel of the soft dust underfoot, the bright, dewy grass
and clover by the wayside, the lessening of houses and the growing
wideness of field and pasture, all contented and delighted Dickie. He
felt to the full all the joy that Mr. Beale felt in "'oofing it," and
when as the sun was sinking they overtook a bent, slow-going figure, it
was with a thrill of real pleasure that Dickie recognized the woman who
had given him the blue ribbon for True.

True himself, now grown large and thick of coat, seemed to recognize a
friend, gambolled round her dreadful boots, sniffed at her withered
hand.

"Give her a lift with her basket, shall us?" Dickie whispered to Mr.
Beale and climbed out of the perambulator. "I can make shift to do this
last piece."

So the three went on together, in friendly silence. As they neared
Orpington the woman said, "Our road parts here; and thank you kindly. A
kindness is never wasted, so they say."

"That ain't nothing," said Beale; "besides, there's the blue ribbon."

"That the dog?" the woman asked.

"Same ole dawg," said Beale, with pride.

"A pretty beast," she said. "Well--so long."

She looked back to smile and nod to them when she had taken her basket
and the turning to the right, and Dickie suddenly stiffened all over, as
a pointer does when it sees a partridge.

"I say," he cried, "you're the nurse----"

"I've nursed a many in my time," she called back.

"But in the dream ... you know."

"Dreams is queer things," said the woman. "And," she added, "least said
is soonest mended."

"But ..." said Dickie.

"Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut's a good motto," said she,
nodded again, and turned resolutely away.

"Not very civil, I don't think," said Beale, "considerin'----"

"Oh, she's all right," said Dickie, wondering very much, and very
anxious that Beale should not wonder. "May I ride in the pram, farver?
My foot's a bit blistered, I think. We ain't done so much walkin'
lately, 'ave us?"

"Ain't tired in yourself, are you?" Mr. Beale asked, "'cause there's a
place called Chevering Park, pretty as a picture--I thought we might lay
out there. I'm a bit 'ot in the 'oof meself; but I can stick it if you
c