“Oh, surely, surely,” she exclaimed, “it was a dream. It must have been.”
But Hertha shook her head.
“No,” she said, “it was no dream—nothing in the least resembling what we are accustomed to call dreams. A vision it may have been. Perhaps all ghostly visitations are visions. But I was awake when I saw it. I remember her face perfectly. If I were an artist I could paint it.”
“And it has impressed you very much?” said Winifred.
“Naturally.”
“And you have told no one but me?—thank you for that. It was good of you, for—of course they would associate it with me, with my being here.”
“They could scarcely do otherwise,” said Hertha, drily.
“It is strange,” said Winifred, as if thinking aloud. “Why, if such things are, why did she not appear to me?”
“Perhaps she cannot. Perhaps you are one who could not be made conscious of such a presence,” said Hertha. “Perhaps—” But here she stopped, though with a little smile.
“Go on, do,” said Winifred.