zing
on your bed, and I was down here on the floor, sewing, I
saw--something. And the cat looked up suddenly and saw it, too."

"Athalie!"

"She did, mamma. I knew perfectly well that she saw what I saw."

"What was it you saw?"

"Only a young man. He walked over to the window--"

"And then?"

"I don't know, mamma. I don't know where they go. They go, that's all
I know."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Did he look at us?"

"Yes.... He seemed to be thinking of something pleasant."

"Did he smile?"

"He--had a pleasant look.... And once,--it was last Sunday--over by
the bed I saw a little boy. He was kneeling down beside the bed. And
Mr. Ledlie's dog was lying here beside me.... Don't you remember how
he suddenly lifted his head and barked?"

"Yes, I remember. But you didn't tell me why at the time."

"I didn't like to.... I never like to speak about these--people--I
see."

"Had you ever before seen the little boy?"

"No, mamma."

"Was he--alive--do you think?"

"Why, yes. They all are alive."

"Mrs. Allen was not alive when you saw her over by the door."

The child looked puzzled. "Yes," she said, "but that was a little
different. Not _very_ different. They are all perfectly alive, mamma."

"Even the ones we call dead? Are you sure of it?"

"Yes.... Yes, I'm sure of it. They are not dead.... Nothing seems to
die. Nothing stays dead."

"What! Why do you believe that?"

Athalie said slowly: "Somebody shot and killed a poor little dog,
once,--just across the causeway bridge.... And the dog came into the
garden afterward and ran all around, smelling, and wagging his tail."

"Athalie! Athalie! Be careful to control your imagination."

"Yes," said the child, thoughtfully, "I must be careful to control it.
I can imagine almost anything if I try."

"How hard have you ever tried to imagine some of the things you
see--or think you see?"

"Mamma, I never try. I--I don't care to see them. I'd rather not.
Those things come. _I_ haven't anything to do with it. I don't know
these people, and I am not interested. I _did_ try to see papa in New
York--if you call that imagination."

But her mother did not know what to call it because at the hour when
Athalie had seen him, that mild and utterly unimaginative man was
actually saying and doing what his daughter had seen and heard.

"Also," said Athalie, "I _was_ thinking about that poor little yellow
dog and wondering whether he was past all suffer