WOOD FIRES 



&quot;No, I didn t. You ve been dreaming. Don t 

 bother me with such intricate questions.&quot; 



&quot; What s intricate, papa ? &quot; 



&quot; Knotty.&quot; 



&quot; He can t be your best man, can he ? &quot; 



I got up and went to the bedside and looked 

 into the little ingenuous face, upon which this 

 problem had dropped like a film of frost. 



With the influence of the wood fire still upon 

 me, I thought, as he closed his eyes, and I 

 smoothed the hair down on his forehead, that 

 all at once he was telephonic, to be talked 

 through, not at. 



&quot; Charlie, my boy,&quot; I said, &quot; nobody can be 

 my best man but you. You are the best and 

 only. So don t you worry.&quot; 



But he was asleep. He had delivered his mes 

 sage. 



I stood there and listened a moment, as if I 

 expected to hear a halloo at the other end of an 

 ethereal wire. The little round clock on the 

 shelf ticked audibly. The yellow dog had heard 

 Charlie s voice and given two or three responsive 

 raps with her tail, and then gone off on the same 

 dream path with the boy. The fire spat weakly. 

 The wooden shutter shivered a little. I was stark 

 alone. I have often asked myself since if I was. 



But that wood fire must have danced illumina- 

 tively through my mind when I was asleep. The 

 last things I saw were the two conch-shells, like 

 dull, pink eyes winking at me. Then that fan 

 tasy of the telegraph smoke began to weave itself 



2 33 



