you look up the very self of it, you look straight into the sun—you are dazzled with the glory of it. It doesn't matter what they rest on, and look ugly or ragged or silly or hard, or how beautiful and tender and laughing,—that is only because of what they happen for the moment to rest on; but every one of them comes straight from the sun and isn't the least bit separated from it; and when you know that, why—why you know that the edges and the colors and the movements haven't really anything to do with them at all—aren't any part of them; and—and then you love them all; you can't help it, they are so wonderful."
Still the Dream sat watching her. "Oh, you needn't think it's just sunbeams that I mean," she cried. "I see what you meant by the sunbeams answering the question, and that is why it is so glorious. Every one of them—every one of the people that I don't love, and every one of them that I do, if I could just look back through the self of them, the way that I looked back through the self of the sunbeam, I would be dazzled a million times more, I'd see the glory that their life is in and is never separated from; and I'd love them—oh, I'd love
