It was of a little white house on an Irish heath, and inside was the biggest fireplace in the world, where crimson flames went roaring up the big, dark chimney, and where witches and fairies held high carnival.

There was a big chair on each side the hearth, and between them a tiny red rocker with flowers painted on the arms of it.

That was the clearest of all.

There were persons in the large chairs, one a silent Scotchman who, instinct told him, must have been his father, and the other--oh, tricky memory that faltered when he wanted it to be so clear!--was the maddest, merriest little mother that ever came back to haunt a lad.

By holding tight to the memory he could see that her eyes were blue like his own, but her hair was black.