“I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.”
“So they all tell me. I can feel it, of course, but that isn’t quite the same thing.”
“Then have you never—-?” I began, but stopped abashed.
“Not since I can remember. It happened when I was only a few months old, they tell me. And yet I must remember something, else how could I dream about colours. I see light in my dreams, and colours, but I never see them. I only hear them just as I do when I’m awake.”
“It’s difficult to see faces in dreams. Some people can, but most of us haven’t the gift,” I went on, looking up at the window where the child stood all but hidden.
“I’ve heard that too,” she said. “And they tell me that one never sees a dead person’s face in a dream. Is that true?”
“I believe it is—now I come to think of it.”
“But how is it with yourself—yourself?” The blind eyes turned towards me.
“I have never seen the faces of my dead in any dream,” I answered.
“Then it must be as bad as being blind.”