"Shall I talk to you about my father?" she asked.
"I don't believe in fathers," he replied. "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.