I made up my mind that when I grew up I would not wear a large _chignon_ after all, nor a bonnet full of flowers, nor a dress full of flounces, but a rather short skirt and buckled shoes and grey curls, and a big hat with many bows, and a green satin driving-cloak lined with fur.
How any one, blessed with grown-up freedom of choice, could submit to be driven about by a coach-man in a big carriage, as highly stuffed and uninteresting as a first-class railway carriage, when it was possible to drive one's self in a sort of toy-cart with a dear white pony as shaggy as a dog, I could not understand.

I well knew which I should choose, and I thought so much of it that I remember dreaming that my great-grandmother had presented me with a pony and chaise the counterpart of her own.

The dream-joy of this acquisition, and the pride of driving up to the Bullers' door and offering to take Matilda for an expedition, was only marred by one of those freaks which spoil the pleasure of so many dreams.

Just as Matilda appeared, full of gratitude, and with a picnic luncheon in a basket, I became conscious that I was in my night-gown, and had forgotten to dress.

Again and again I tried to go back in my dream and put on suitable clothes.