r man's brother."

"Did he believe in the possibility of the dead helping the living?"

"He believed in all kinds of possibilities. But I don't think he
considered that possibility proven."

"It couldn't be proved, could it?" asked Desire thoughtfully.
"Experiences like that are so intensely individual. One cannot pass
them on."

"Can you describe yours at all?"

"Hardly. It was just a feeling of Presence. A sense of her being there.
It came at all sorts of times and in all sorts of places. We lived in
Vancouver when mother died. It was a much smaller town then, not like
the city you have seen. But after her death we moved about a great
deal, never staying very long anywhere, until we came here. There
were--experiences." Her eyes hardened. "But, as long as I had that
sense I am speaking of, I was safe. I used to have long crying fits in
the dark, a kind of blind terror of everything. And after one of them
it nearly always came. I never questioned it. Never once did I ask
myself, 'Is it mother?'. I just knew that it was. There seemed nothing
unusual about it."

"Was there no one, no woman, to take care of you?"

"There were--women." Desire's lips tightened into a thin red line. "We
did not travel alone. Once I remember terrifying a--a friend of
father's who was 'looking after' me. She heard me crying in my little,
dark room one night, and as soon as she could slip away, came in. She
was a kindly sort. But when she got there I was quite content and
happy--which surprised her much more than the crying had done. She
asked me what had 'shut me up,' and I said 'My mother is here--go
away.' She turned quite pasty-white and the candle shook so that the
hot grease fell upon my hands."

"What a life for a child!" exclaimed Spence in sudden rage. "Desire
dear, you must come with me! I couldn't--couldn't leave you here.
I--oh, dash it! I mean, it's so evident, isn't it, that we need each
other?"

"You really and truly need me?" doubtfully.

"Really and truly."

"But if I come, you ought to know something of the life I have lived.
You must realize that I am not an innocent young girl."

"Aren't you?" The professor found it difficult to say this with the
proper inflection. It did not sound as business-like as he could have
wished. But she was too much absorbed to notice.

"No. I've seen things which young girls do not see. I have heard things
which are never whispered before them. No one cared particularly what I
sa