Gradually the room grew familiar; the painted bed and chair, the window with its four small panes, which he loved to polish and clean, "so that the sky could come through," the purple mussel-shell and the china dog, his sole treasures and ornaments.

The mussel was his greatest joy, perhaps; it had been given him by a fisherman, who had brought a pocket-full back from his sea trip, to please his own children.

It made no sound, but the tint was pure and lovely, and it was lined with rainbow pearl.

The dog was not jealous, for he knew (or the boy John thought he knew), that he was, after all, the more companionable of the two, and that he was talked to ten times for the mussel's once.

John was telling him now, as he struggled into his shirt and trousers, about the vision of last night, and the dreams that followed it.