“I did not.” “But you sent for me.” “No, Amos went for you of his own accord.” “Well, how did he know I was coming?” Mr. Cabot raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea, unless you sent him word.” “Of course I didn’t send him word. What an idea! Why don’t you tell me how you knew?” and the honest eyes were fixed upon his own in stern disapproval. He smiled and said it was evidently a mysterious case; that she must cross-examine the prophet. He then told her of the roses and of his interview with Amos. She was mystified, and also a little excited as she recalled the stories of Deacon White, but knowing her father would only laugh at them, contented herself with exacting the promise of an immediate explanation from Mr. Judd. V Early in the evening the young man appeared. He found Mr. Cabot and Molly sitting before a cheerful fire, an agreeable contrast to the howling elements without. She thanked him for the roses, expressing her admiration for their uncommon beauty. With a grave salutation he answered, “I told them, one morning, when they were little buds, that if they surpassed all previous roses there was a chance of being accepted by the Dispenser of Sunshine who dwells across the way; and this is the result of their efforts.” “The results are superb, and I am grateful.” “There is no question of their beauty,” said Mr. Cabot, “and they appear to possess a knowledge of coming events that must be of value at times.” “It was not from the roses I got my information, sir. But I will tell you about that now, if you wish.” “Well, take a cigar and clear up the mystery.” It seemed a winter’s evening, as the three sat before the fire, the older man in the centre, the younger people on either side, facing each other. Mr. Cabot crossed his legs, and laying his magazine face downward upon his lap, said, “I confess I shall be glad to have the puzzle solved, as it is a little deep for me except on the theory that you are skilful liars. Molly I know to be unpractised in that art, but as for you, Amos, I can only guess what you may conceal under a truthful exterior.” Amos smiled. “It is something to look honest, and I am glad you can say even that.” Then, after a pause, he leaned back in his chair and, in a voice at first a little constrained, thus began: “As long ago as I can remember I used to imagine things that were to happen, all sorts of scenes and events that might possibly occur, as most children do, I suppose. But these scenes, or imaginings, were of two kinds: those that required a little effort of my own, and another kind that came with no effort whatever. These last were the most usual, and were sometimes of use as they always came true. That is, they never failed to occur just as I had seen them. While a child this did not surprise me, as I supposed all the rest of the world were just like myself.”