One night I thought I saw and spoke with my father. Although I had never seen him whilst he lived I fancied in my dream that his face was as familiar to me as Mother's – But it was terribly sad. We sat on boxes that floated on a calm sea. At times he would rise from a sitting position and standing on his floating box would pour out a torrent of praise and love addressed to his lost lady, my mother … All the time his eyes would rain tears which ran down into the salt water and spread round him in rings of crimson, purple and black which with the green of the sea combined to make a most pleasing effect that delighted us (my father and myself) exceedingly. We were both astonished at the colours for after all, said he ‘they cannot be tears of blood’ – and laughed – And I replied ‘nor coloured tears, father.’ And he said – ‘I think not.’

And by and by as we sat without speaking, the sky grew darker and darker – and from the three circles of colour came thousands of voices all like drowned voices – a mixture of sobbing and laughter flung up from the deep. All the while I remained wonderstruck and a feeling of deep sorrow took hold of me.