"Yes," said Marjorie. Then she laughed. "You'd think they'd rub their noses off, wouldn't you?"
The Dream laughed, too. "They would if there were friction," he said; "but they know how not to let the rocks and roughnesses be real enough to them to rub; and so they save their noses and their dispositions. Now go over there to that one sitting on the toadstool—the one that you don't like—and put your face down close to her, right where her face is resting, and look up."
Marjorie did, and for a moment her face shone out with the glory of the sun. Then she stood up, her hands over her eyes, but not all of the glory gone out of her face.
"What did you see?" asked the Dream.
Marjorie took down her hands and her eyes were full of wonder from within. "I looked straight into the sun," she said, in a low, awed voice. "I—I think I begin to understand."
The Dream watched her as she looked from one sunbeam to another, the ones that she had criticised and the ones that she had loved.
Suddenly she swept out her hands. "Every one of them," she cried, "every one of them, if
