"Is this the place?" asked the Dream.
Marjorie sat still on the top of the high hill and gazed around. "Oh," she said breathlessly, "isn't it wonderful!"
"There's one nice thing about you," said the Dream, "You don't admire things with a falling inflection."
Marjorie looked puzzled. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"Why," said the Dream, "haven't you known people who admire things with a falling inflection or a whine?"
"Oh yes," said Marjorie, "Now that I think of it. I used to know a woman who would say:—'They have the most b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l home!' in exactly the same tone that she would have said:—'It was the s-a-d-d-e-s-t story!' And another who used to say:—'I just adore flowers,' in a tone that made you see nothing but funeral wreaths and weeping willows. She said that flowers never 'kept' for her, but just wilted right down, and I always thought that it was because she hung about their necks with all her weight, instead of patting them on the cheek and calling them 'dearie.' And she was just the same with people. She used to put her hand on my shoulder and tell me how much she loved little girls; and her hand was warm and heavy, and so was her thought, and I used to feel as if I were being wrapped up and smothered in a warm, soft, underdone pancake. It wasn't nice of me, but why couldn't she be cheery about things, especially cheery things, and think up instead of down?"
