said, "he is my brother. The Good Father belongs to us both."
The Dream nodded. "You think quicker than you used to," he said. "Come, let's be moving on."
In a little while they came to a very rough and stony hill; but Marjorie, busily talking to the Dream, did not notice it particularly until they were more than half-way down it; then she stopped short and stared at her feet.
"What's the matter?" asked the Dream.
"Why, my shoes!" exclaimed Marjorie.
"Well, what about them?" asked the Dream. "They look like very good shoes."
"But," cried Marjorie, excitedly, "I gave my shoes to the little boy! Where did these come from?"
The Dream shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know?" he said, carelessly. "Come, let's not loiter."
"But," persisted Marjorie, standing still, "I tell you I gave mine to the little boy."
"Well, what if you did?" said the Dream. "These are just as good, aren't they?"
"Yes—yes, indeed—they're better; they're perfectly new; but where did they come from?"
