"Yes, of course, but how long ago did you find you could do this?" "Only to-day. This was the first time." "But Ruth says you often know what people think, or are going to say, before they say it?" "Yes, sir." "How long have you been able to do this?" "Oh, p'r'aps three or four years." "Why did you never happen to tell me?" "I supposed you knew. I supposed everybody could do it." "No; it's a very unusual faculty--very unusual indeed." Then, with a smile: "I suppose you have often known what _I_ was thinking?" Cyrus laughed. "Oh, yes; lots of times!" "When was the last time?" Cyrus hesitated. He looked down at Zac, as if for encouragement. Then, with a glance from the corners of his eyes: "Just now." "Just now!" Cyrus bobbed his head and grinned. "Yes, just now." "Why--what was it?" Again Cyrus hesitated. His father smiled--the smile of reassurance. "Go ahead and tell me about it." "Will you promise not to be angry or say anything bad?" "Yes, I promise." "Well, when I broke the window pane in the parlor to-day I was going to wait and let Joanna tell you about it when I was out of the way. But when you looked at me to-night after I had told about the dream I saw that you were in such a hurry to find out about the message from Ruth, that you wouldn't think so much of the window pane. So I told you." Dr. Alton smiled and kept his promise, refraining from criticism. But he recalled the look in the boy's eyes, a few moments since--the look as of gently exploring another's thoughts. The recollection at this present moment brought a singular feeling almost of awe; as of something beyond human limitations. Was he on the border land of the supernatural? And yet, as he looked into the honest face of Cyrus, his wonder did not lessen. He found, therein, no solution of the mystery. He discovered nothing beyond the familiar face of his normal, sane and healthy boy, absorbed in things that became his age. He knew that Cyrus, like other boys, would rather eat than pray; that he preferred stealing apples to hearing sermons and would rather be a pirate than a bishop. This knowledge did not trouble the father. He had been a boy himself. Then, sitting on the old sofa beside Zac and Cyrus, he asked many questions. They were all answered. Cyrus had nothing to conceal. With boyish frankness he told many things, some serious, some amusing--little secrets of his own--when he had enjoyed his extraordinary gift. His experiences in divining the thoughts of others were given as matter of fact occurrences. He had believed, until now, that this power was possessed by all the world.