Chapter VII

           “ThefeelingyoucallTheFearhasnevercometome,”Isaidtoher.“AndifithadIthinkitwouldhavemeltedawaybecauseofadreamIoncehad.Idon’treallybelieveitwasadream,butIcallitone.IthinkIreallywentsomewhereandcameback.IoftenwonderwhyIcameback.Itwasonlyashortdream,sosimplethatthereisscarcelyanythingtotell,andperhapsitwillnotconveyanythingtoyou.Butithasbeenpartofmylife—thattimewhenIwasOutontheHillside.ThatiswhatIcallTheDreamtomyself,‘OutontheHillside,’asifitwereakindofunearthlypoem.Butitwasn’t.ItwasmorerealthananythingIhaveeverfelt.Itwasreal—real!IwishthatIcouldtellitsothatyouwouldknowhowrealitwas.”

           Ifeltalmostpiteousinmylongingtomakeherknow.Iknewshewasafraidofsomething,andifIcouldmakeherknowhowREALthatonebriefdreamhadbeenshewouldnotbeafraidanymore.AndIlovedher,Ilovedhersomuch!

           “IwasasleeponenightatMuircarrie,”Iwenton,“andsuddenly,withoutanypreparatorydreaming,IwasstandingoutonahillsideinmoonlightsofterandmoreexquisitethanIhadeverseenorknownbefore.PerhapsIwasstillinmynightgown—Idon’tknow.Myfeetwerebareonthegrass,andIworesomethinglightandwhitewhichdidnotseemtotouchme.IfittouchedmeIdidnotfeelit.Mybarefeetdidnotfeelthegrass;theyonlyknewitwasbeneaththem.

           “ItwasalowhillIstoodon,andIwasonlyonthesideofit.