ned. And now and
then a form, usually unknown, almost always smiling and friendly, visible
for a few moments--the space of a fire-fly's incandescence--then
fading--entering her orbit out of nothing and, going into nothing,
out of it.

Of these episodes she had never entertained any fear. Sometimes they
interested her, sometimes even slightly amused her. But they had never
saddened her, not even when they had been the flash-lit harbingers of
death. For only a sense of calmness and serenity accompanied them:
and to her they had always been part of the world and of life, nothing
to wonder at, nothing to fear, and certainly nothing to intrude
on--merely incidents not concerning her, not remarkable, but natural
and requiring no explanation.

But she herself did not know and could not explain why, even as a
child, she had been always reticent regarding these occurrences,--why
she had always been disinclined to discuss them. Unless it were a
natural embarrassment and a hesitation to discuss strangers, as though
comment were a species of indelicacy,--even of unwarranted intrusion.

One night while reading--she had been scanning a newspaper column of
advertisements hoping to find a chance for herself or Catharine--glancing
up she again saw Clive's father seated near her. At the same moment he
lifted his head, which had been resting on one hand, and looked across
the hearthstone at her, smiling faintly.

Entirely unembarrassed, conscious of that atmosphere of serenity which
always was present when such visitors arrived, the girl sat looking at
what her eyes told her she perceived, a slight and friendly smile
curving her lips in silent response.

Presently she became aware that Hafiz, too, saw the visitor, and was
watching him. But this fact she had noticed before, and it did not
surprise her.

And that was all there was to the incident. He rose, walked to the
window, stood there. And after a little while he was not there. That
ended it. And Hafiz went to sleep again.

CHAPTER XIII

In September Athalie Greensleeve wrote her last letter to Clive
Bailey. It began with a page or two of shyly solicitous inquiries
concerning his well-being, his happiness, his plans; did not refer to
his long silence; did refer to his anticipated return; did not mention
her own accumulating domestic and financial embarrassments and the
successive strokes of misfortune dealt her by those twin and
formidable bravos, Fate and Chance; bu