"They're always after
some notion of their own. It's not their children they care
about."
"That may be true of some fathers," answered Mary; "but it is not
the least true of mine."
"Where is he? Why don't you bring him to see me, if he is such a
good man? He might be able to do something for me."
"There is none but your own father can do anything for you," said
Mary. "My father is gone home to him, but if he were here, he
would only tell you about _him_."
There was a moment's silence.
"Why don't you talk?" said Mr. Redmain, crossly. "What's the good
of sitting there saying nothing! How am I to forget that the pain
will be here again, if you don't say a word to help me?"
Mary lifted up her heart, and prayed for something to say to the
sad human soul that had never known the Father. But she could
think of nothing to talk about except the death of William
Marston. So she began with the dropping of her watch, and,
telling whatever seemed at the moment fit to tell, ended with the
dream she had the night of his funeral. By that time the hidden
fountain was flowing in her soul, and she was able to speak
straight out of it.
"I can not tell you, sir," she said, closing the story of her
dream, "what a feeling it was! The joy of it was beyond all
expression."
"You're not surely going to offer me a dream in proof of
anything!" muttered the sick man.
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