The child hung her head: "Nothing--" she began; but her mother checked her: "Don't lie, Athalie. I'll try to understand you. Now tell me what you were--what you thought you were looking at over there near the door." The child turned and glanced back at the door over her shoulder. "There is nothing there--now," she muttered. "Was there anything?" Athalie sat silent for a while, then she laid her clasped hands across her mother's knees and rested her cheek on them. "There was a woman there," she said. "Where?" "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?"