'I only did it to please _you_, Phil,' Kathie went on.
'Well, you know you said you were sure you'd find _it_ if you were in the house, and I didn't want you to think I hadn't looked at all.'
'I didn't say I was sure I'd find it,' said Philippa. 'If I thought that, I'd ask Miss Clotilda's leave to look now I am in the house. But I _have_ a very queer feeling that it _is_ in the house; and last night--now don't laugh at me, Kathie--I had such a queer dream.'
'Do tell it to us,' said both Neville and Kathleen.
But Philippa was a little out of breath with climbing.
'Let's wait till we sit down to eat our dinner, and then I'll tell it you,' she said.
[Illustration: THEY FOUND A NOOK ... TO EAT THEIR DINNER IN.]
fter a while the three children had had enough of climbing and scrambling about, besides which they began to feel hungry. They found a nook which, as Philippa said, 'seemed made on purpose to eat their dinner in,' and there they comfortably established themselves for that purpose.
Dinner over, Kathleen reminded Philippa of her dream.
'Oh yes,' said the little girl, 'it really was a very funny one. I thought I was at school, and Miss Fraser was calling to Kathie and me to be quick, and just as we ran out of the room--which had turned into Kathie's room at Ty-gwyn, only that there were seats all round like a railway-carriage, and the door was like a railway-carriage door--Kathie's frock tore, and she called to me for a pin. I put my hand into my pocket to feel for my little pincushion, which I always keep there, and my pocket was all full of some sort of stuff like--like'--
'Like feathers,' said Kathie; 'it was my telling you about the pillows.'
'No,' Philippa went on, 'it wasn't like feathers--it was more powdery.'
'Like dried rose-leaves?' again suggested Kathie. 'What aunty calls "pot-pourri." We were talking of the scent of it last night.'
'Oh, Kathie, do be quiet!' said Neville. 'You can't always explain dreams like that--indeed, you very seldom can.'
'Bits of them you very often can,' Kathleen maintained.
'But it wasn't dried rose-leaves either,' said Philippa. 'I remember the feeling of it in my fingers. If I remember afterwards what it was like, I'll tell you. Well, I pulled my hand out again, and I found I was holding something--not my pincushion. The thing was a little book, only it wasn't made of paper, but of lovely bits of silk, all fastened together, for the leaves. And the funniest thing was that though they were of all sorts of patterns and colours, there seemed to be words on them all, which you could read through the patterns somehow. I fancied that the words on the first page were, "For dear mamma, from her loving Philippa;" and immediately I called out, "Oh, Kathie, see! it's a present for me to send to mamma, only I haven't made it myself." Still I went on turning the leaves. I can't remember any of the words on them till I came to the last, and on it I read, "Look in the----" and then it seemed all a muddle, only I knew it meant the place where the will was. I tried and tried to read it, but I couldn't; and then I called to Kathie to try, and I suppose I must have really made a little squeak in my sleep, for just as I thought I was calling her very loud, I woke.'