A great silent change, not the less a development, had been and was
passing in the major. Mark not only was an influence on him altogether
new, but had stirred up and brought alive in him a thousand influences
besides, not merely of things hitherto dormant in him, but of memories
never consciously, operant--words of his mother; a certain
Sunday-evening with her; her last blessing on his careless head; the
verse of a well-known hymn she repeated as she was dying; old scraps of
things she had taught him; dying little Mark gave life to these and many
other things. The major had never been properly a child, but now lived
his childness over again with Mark in a better fashion.
"I have had such a curious, such a beautiful dream, majie!" he said,
waking in the middle of one night. The major was sitting up with him: he
was never left alone now.
"What was it, Markie?" asked the major.
"I should like Corney to hear it," returned Mark.
"I will call him, and you can then tell it us together."
"Oh, I don't think it would do to wake Corney up! He would not like
that! He must hear it sometime--but it must be at the right time, else
he would laugh at it, and I could not bear that.
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