"She says"--and then she told me what she said. She had seen Alice Stuart in a Western town, seven hundred miles away. Among the living, she desired to be counted of the dead. And that was all. My mother paced the room three times back and forth, her hands locked. "Sarah." There was a chill in her voice--it had been such a gentle voice!--that froze me. "Sarah, the girl is an impostor." "Mother!" She paced the room once more, three times, back and forth. "At any rate, she is a poor, self-deluded creature. How _can_ she see, seven hundred miles away, a dead woman who has been an angel all these years? Think! an _angel_, Sarah! So much better than I, and I--I loved--" Before or since, I never heard my mother speak like that. She broke off sharply, and froze back into her chilling voice. "We will say nothing about this, if you please. I do not believe a word of it." We said nothing about it but Selphar did. The delusion, if delusion it were, clung to her, haunted her, pursued her, week after week. To rid her of it, or to silence her, was impossible. She added no new facts to her first statement, but insisted that the long-lost dead was yet alive, with a quiet pertinacity that it was simply impossible to ridicule, frighten, threaten, or cross-question out of her. Clara was so thoroughly alarmed that she would not have slept alone for any mortal--perhaps not for any immortal--considerations. Winthrop and I talked the matter over often and gravely when we were alone and in quiet places. Mother's lips were sealed. From the day when Sel made the first disclosure, she was never heard once to refer to the matter. A perceptible haughtiness crept into her manner towards the girl. She even talked of dismissing her, but repented it, and melted into momentary gentleness. I could have cried over her that night. I was beginning to understand what a pitiful struggle her life had become, and how alone she must be in it. She _would_ not believe--she knew not what. She could not doubt the girl. And with the conflict even her children could not intermeddle. To understand the crisis into which she was brought, the reader must bear in mind our long habit of belief, not only in Selphar's personal honesty, but in the infallibility of her mysterious power. Indeed, it had almost ceased to be mysterious to us, from daily familiarity. We had come to regard it as the curious working of physical disease, had taken its results as a matter of course, and had ceased, in common with converted Creston, to doubt the girl's capacity for seeing anything that she chose to, at any place. Thus a year worried on. My mother grew sleepless and pallid. She laughed often, in a nervous, shallow way, as unlike her as a butterfly is unlike a sunset; and her face settled into an habitual sharpness and hardness unutterably painful to me.