"That I should like to see 'William Foster' and—and try to make him understand what he is doing. Perhaps he doesn't know, doesn't realise. God often lets the devil blind us, you know. If I told him about Jenny, told him all about her, he might see—he might understand. Don't you think so?"
Catherine was holding her mother's hand. She pressed it vehemently.
"Oh, mother, perhaps he might!"
Mrs. Ardagh sat up still more among her pillows.
"You don't think it's a silly fancy?"
"I don't know. I wonder."
Catherine was crying quietly.
"It keeps coming," said Mrs. Ardagh, "as if God sent it to me. What can I do? How can I send to William Foster? I don't know where he is. Could that Mr. Berrand——?"
"Mother," Catherine said. "Leave it to me, I will bring William Foster to you."
She was trembling. But the invalid, exhausted with the excitement of the conversation, was growing drowsy. She sank down again in her pillows.