"What divine radiance the sunset is," murmured young Joyce Ford. Gazing into the west, she drank in the fire and water where sky and sea met. The sun's last rays gave everything within sight a rosy glow. Evening was her favorite time of day, for all the world appeared to be different. It had an ambience of bygone days of The Island. At sixteen years of age, Joyce was at the edge of girlhood and just a few steps away from womanhood. She did not know what lay beyond the horizon of her life, but it was sure to push her to those final steps, maybe even farther than she could imagine.
"Joyce!" a voice called from a distance. "Come home, child, it will be a chill night and you'll catch your death of cold out there!"
She tore herself away from her "heaven on earth", for she knew the voice well. Visiting her grandparents always involved Susan Baker. Susan had worked for them for so many years; it was as if she was family, another grandmother to Joyce. She always spoiled her and at times, got the queerest look in her eyes, almost as if she were thinking of someone else. The same look made her feel strange knowing it was her namesake they were imagining, little Joyce of the House of Dreams. Yes, her namesake would have been her mother's oldest sister, her aunt. Joyce Ford never saw the anguish return to her Grandmother Blythe's eyes after every visit; she never heard the sobs that seemed too shake the very foundation of Ingleside. No, all she ever knew were Anne's dreams of her darling Joyce being made real at last by her granddaughter. That was all that mattered.
As Joyce approached Ingleside, she saw a familiar sight, one that was always near to her. Her grandfather, the old town doctor, and the retired Presbyterian minister, John Meredith; deep in conversation discussing Europe, politics, and whatever else would come to mind. Her grandmother, with eyes flashing a vivid green, and Rosemary Meredith; were talking of their children and grandchildren. Her musings were interrupted by a greeting from Gilbert, her grandfather. She turned her attention to him, smiling; her gaze meeting his. A favorite of his was she and all because she was so much like his own wife, her grandmother.
Now seated with her grandmother and Mrs. Meredith, she looked up to the heavens as one counting stars might, until she noticed that the Meredith's were leaving for the manse. Joyce bid them good night and with a word of such to her grandparents also, she whisked herself away up to her mother's old room. Sighing, she stared at the moon, its strange orange tint, and what it might mean. Silently, Anne came in to find her on the window seat looking at the world without. As when she was a wee thing, her grandmother brushed her hair and braided it, after which she wrapped her up in a warm embrace.
Later, lying in bed that night, Joyce slept a troubled sleep plagued by nightmares which paralyzed her with fear. In her dreams, she saw her grandmother and grandfather as they must have been upon the death of little Joyce, then Walter, and the darkest days of the Great War. The House of Dreams burned in the night with her parents inside, unaware. She awoke in a cold sweat and sat up in bed. On nights such as these, she found herself wishing to be a little child so at to crawl in bed with her grandmother and believe it really all was just a dream. But it wasn't, her grandparents had endured all of which she dreamt, but the fire. The fire! With a start, she peered out the window looking in the direction of her home. Light only came from the moon and stars, her world was safe. Such premonitions troubled her, but she spoke of them to no one for who would believe such notions? Pondering this question, Joyce fell asleep at last.