"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.
"Yes," answered Mary--"in proof of what it can prove.

The joy of a child over a new toy, or a colored sweetmeat, shows of what bliss the human soul is made capable." "Oh, capable, I dare say!" "And more than that," Mary went on, adding instead of replying, "no one ever felt such gladness without believing in it.