Shears I could hear where some gardener was
clipping; a mumble of bees and broken voices that might have been the
doves.
"Oh, unkind!" she said weariedly.
"Perhaps they're only shy of the motor. The little maid at the window
looks tremendously interested."
"Yes?" She raised her head. "It was wrong of me to say that. They are
really fond of me. It's the only thing that makes life worth living--when
they're fond of you, isn't it? I daren't think what the place would be
without them. By the way, is it beautiful?"
"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.
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