re?"

"Over by the door."

"You saw her, Athalie?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Did she open the door and come in and then close it behind her?"

"No."

"How did she come in?"

"I don't know. She--just came in."

"Was she a young woman?"

"No, old."

"Very old?"

"Not very. There was grey in her hair--a little."

"How was she dressed?"

"She wore a night-gown, mamma. There were spots on it--like medicine."

"Had you ever seen her before?"

"I think so."

"Who was she?"

"Mrs. Allen."

Her mother sat very still but her clasped hands tightened and a little
of the colour faded from her cheeks. There was a Mrs. Allen who had
been suffering from an illness which she herself was afraid she had.

"Do you mean Mrs. James Allen who lives on the old Allen farm?" she
asked quietly.

"Yes, mamma."

* * * * *

In the morning they heard of Mrs. Allen's death. And it was several
months before Mrs. Greensleeve again spoke to her daughter on the one
subject about which Athalie was inclined to be most reticent. But that
subject now held a deadly fascination for her mother.

They had been sitting together in Mrs. Greensleeve's bedroom; the
mother knitting, in bed propped up upon the pillows. Athalie,
cross-legged on a hassock beside her, was doing a little mending on
her own account, when her mother said abruptly but very quietly:

"I have always known that you possess a power--which others cannot
understand."

The child's face flushed deeply and she bent closer over her mending.

"I knew it when they first brought you to me, a baby just born.... I
don't know how I knew it, but I did."

Athalie, sewing steadily, said nothing.

"I think," said her mother, "you are, in some degree, what is called
clairvoyant."

"What?"

"Clairvoyant," repeated her mother quietly. "It comes from the French,
_clair_, clear; the verb _voir_, to see; _clair-voyant_, seeing
clearly. That is all, Athalie.... Nothing to be ashamed of--if it is
true,--" for the child had dropped her work and had hidden her face in
her hands.

"Dear, are you afraid to talk about it to your mother?"

"N-no. What is there to say about it?"

"Nothing very much. Perhaps the less said the better.... I don't know,
little daughter. I don't understand it--comprehend it. If it's so,
it's so.... I see you sometimes looking at things I cannot see; I know
sometimes you hear sounds which I cannot hear.... Things happen which
per