"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 ha.s.sock 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 perplex the rest of us; and, somehow I seem to know that they do not perplex you. What to us seems unnatural to you is natural, even a commonplace matter of course."
"That"s it, mamma. I have never seen anything that did not seem quite natural to me."
"Did you know that Mrs. Allen had died when you--thought you saw her?"
"I did see her."
"Yes.... Did you know she had died?"
"Not until I saw her."
"Did you know it then?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I don"t know how I knew it. I seemed to know it."
"Did you know she had been ill?"
"No, mamma."
"Did it in any way frighten you--make you uneasy when you saw her standing there?"
"Why, no," said Athalie, surprised.
"Not even when you knew she was dead?"
"No. Why should it? Why should I be afraid?"
Her mother was silent.
"Why?" asked Athalie, curiously. "Is there anything to be afraid of with G.o.d and all his angels watching us? Is there?"
"No."
"Then," said the child with some slight impatience, "why is it that other people seem to be a little afraid of me and of what they say I can hear and see? I have good eyesight; I see clearly; that is all, isn"t it? And there is nothing to frighten anybody in seeing clearly, is there?"