Could this be his little sister come back to him in a dream--his little sister whom he had carried about in his arms for a year before she died, when he was a small boy without shoes or stockings?
That was the first thought that darted across Silas's blank wonderment.

_Was_ it a dream?
He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame did not disperse the vision--it only lit up more distinctly the little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing.
It was very much like his little sister.

Silas sank into his chair powerless, under the double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories.

How and when had the child come in without his knowledge?
He had never been beyond the door.

But along with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard--and within that vision another, of the thoughts which had been present with him in those far-off scenes.