Some of the neighbours thought this poor girl’s grief excessive.  Nancy indeed, who buried her own exceedingly ancient parent comparatively recently, bade her remember that she was not the only one who knew what it is to lose a mother.  It is not, as a rule, considered quite decent to speak in other than cheerful tones of a bereavement which has occurred more than a year ago,—­unless, of course, you are taking a general survey of your troubles, in which case it is allowable to include it as a proof the more that you have “supped sorrow.”  But Mary set etiquette at defiance.  Out of the fulness of her heart her mouth spake.  To all corners she must needs tell her loneliness and her sorrow.

One day, however, she received me with a bright face and a certain air of mysterious joy.

“Mrs. Francis, I scarce know how to tell ye, but it seems as if th’ Lord Hissel sent me a bit o’ comfort.  Ye see, nobry had no feelin’ for me here in village; they all towd me to resign mysel’, an’ that, an’ it were wicked o’ me to be ill-satisfied wi’ th’ A’mighty’s will.  But, ye see, I wouldn’t seem able to give ower frettin’—­I raly couldn’t.  Well but, last neet—­I haven’t towd nobry, because I didn’t want to have ’em laughin’, ye know, and, o’ course, I dunnot set mich store by dreams; but still, it seemed to comfort me.”

She looked at me appealingly, and, being assured of my sympathy, continued—­

“Well, last neet I were very lonesome when I geet into bed, an’ I began o’ thinkin’ o’ my mother, an’ wonderin’ where hoo was.  An’ ’Eh, mother,’ I says out loud, ‘wheer are ye, an’ are ye thinkin’ o’ me, an’ are ye in heaven?’ An’ I geet agate o’ cryin’ an’ axin’ mysel wheer was heaven, an’ was hoo raly theer.  Well, at last I dozed off, an’ I had a dream.  I thought I saw my mother, in her cap an’ apron, an’ wi’ her sleeves rolled up—­just same as hoo used to look when hoo was busy about th’ house.  An’ I thought hoo coom along, lookin’ fro’ one side to t’other, as if hoo were seechin’ soombry; an’ I said, ’Here I am, mother.’  An’ hoo stood a moment, an’ smiled.  An’ then”—­sinking her voice and speaking hurriedly and excitedly—­“I looked up at sky (we was out o’ doors i’ my dream), an’ then I saw it all full o’ light, and rays coomin’, goldy rays, same as—­same as ye see sometimes on a Christmas card; an’ they coom down, an’ gathered all about my mother, an’ lapped her round.  An’ then I see her goin’ up, up—­reet into th’ leet; an’ then I wakkened.  Eh, Mrs. Francis, dunnot ye think—­dunnot ye raly think—­as th’ Lord sent me that dream to comfort me?  Eh, I feel sure hoo’s in heaven now, an’ hoo’s thinkin’ o’ me.  I cannot tell ye how ’appy it mak’s me.”

“Eye hath not seen,” says St. Paul, “ear hath not heard.”  Very different was poor Mary’s vision.  Think of it:  the little old woman in her working dress, with the sleeves rolled up on her skinny arms—­the “goldy rays, same as ye see on Christmas cards.”  But, nevertheless, even in her attic room she has had a glimpse of Paradise.