Athalie's face flushed with the shame and pity of her knowledge of the late Mrs. Del Garmo; and the thought of the secret cupboard with its nest of wires made her blush again. The old gentleman looked all around the room and then asked if he might seat himself. Athalie also sat down in the stiff arm-chair by the table where her crystal stood on its tripod. "I wonder," he ventured, "whether you could help me. Do you think so?" "I don't know," replied the girl. "All I know about it is that I cannot help myself through crystal gazing. I never looked into a crystal but once. And what I searched for was not there." The old gentleman considered her earnestly for a few moments. "Child," he said, "you are very honest. Perhaps you could help me. It would be a great consolation to me if you could. Would you try?" "I don't know how," murmured Athalie. "Maybe I can aid you to try by telling you a little about myself." The girl lifted her flushed face from the crystal: "Don't do that, please. If you wish me to try I will. But don't tell me anything." "Why not?" "Because--I am--intelligent and quick--imaginative--discerning. I might unconsciously--or otherwise--be unfair. So don't tell me anything. Let me see if there really is in me any ability." He met her candid gaze mildly but unsmilingly; and she folded her slim hands in her lap and sat looking at him very intently. "Is your name Symes?" she asked presently. He nodded. "Elisha Symes?" "Yes." "And--do you live in Brook--Brookfield--no!--Brookhollow?" "Yes." "That town is in Connecticut, is it not?" "Yes." His trustful gaze had altered, subtly. She noticed it. "I suppose," she said, "you think I could have found out these things through dishonest methods." "I was thinking so.... I am satisfied that you are honest, Miss Greensleeve." "I really am--so far." "Could you tell me how you learned my name and place of residence." Her expression became even more serious: "I don't know, Mr. Symes.... I don't know _how_ I knew it.... I think you wish me to help you find your little grandchildren, too. But I don't know why I think so." When he spoke, controlled emotion made his voice sound almost feeble. He said: "Yes; find my little grandchildren and tell me what they are doing." He passed a transparent hand unsteadily across his dim eyes: "They are not living," he added. "They were lost at sea." She said: "Nothing dies. Nothing is really lost." "Why do you think so, child?" "Because the whole world is gay and animated and lovely with what we call 'the dead.' And, by the dead I mean _all_ things great and small that have ever lived."