“Don’t say that, Euphra. I shall be quite content if God is as kind as you.”
“Oh, Harry! I hope God is like what I dreamed about my mother last night.”
“Tell me what you dreamed about her, dear Euphra.”
“I dreamed that I was a little child—”
“Were you a little girl when your mother died?”
“Oh, yes; such a tiny! But I can just remember her.”
“Tell me your dream, then.”
“I dreamed that I was a little girl, out all alone on a wild mountain-moor, tripping and stumbling on my night-gown. And the wind was so cold! And, somehow or other, the wind was an enemy to me, and it followed and caught me, and whirled and tossed me about, and then ran away again. Then I hastened on, and the thorns went into my feet, and the stones cut them. And I heard the blood from them trickling down the hill-side as I walked.”
“Then they would be like the feet I saw in my dream last night.”
“Whose feet were they?”