In my astonishment I moved, however slightly, and the picture broke up. The deer sprang back into the trees, the birds fluttered up in a hurry of feathers, and she turned calm eyes upon me, as unstartled as if she had known all the time that I was there. “You should not have breathed,” she said smiling. “They must have utter quiet.” I rose up and joined her. “It is a marvel. I can scarcely believe my eyes. How do you do it?” “My father taught me. They come. How can I tell?” She turned away and left me. I thought long over this episode. I recalled words heard in the place of my studies--words I had dismissed without any care at the moment. “To those who see, nothing is alien. They move in the same vibration with all that has life, be it in bird or flower. And in the Uttermost also, for all things are One. For such there is no death.” That was beyond me still, but I watched her with profound interest. She recalled also words I had half forgotten-- “There was nought above me and nought below, My childhood had not learnt to know; For what are the voices of birds, Aye, and of beasts, but words, our words,-- Only so much more sweet.” That might have been written of her. And more. She had found one day in the woods a flower of a sort I had once seen in the warm damp forests below Darjiling--ivory white and shaped like a dove in flight. She wore it that evening on her bosom. A week later she wore what I took to be another. “You have had luck,” I said; “I never heard of such a thing being seen so high up, and you have found it twice.” “No, it is the same.” “The same? Impossible. You found it more than a week ago.” “I know. It is ten days. Flowers don’t die when one understands them--not as most people think.” Her mother looked up and said fretfully: “Since she was a child Brynhild has had that odd idea. That flower is dead and withered. Throw it away, child. It looks hideous.” Was it glamour? What was it? I saw the flower dewy fresh in her bosom She smiled and turned away. It was that very evening she left the veranda where we were sitting in the subdued light of a little lamp and passed beyond where the ray cut the darkness. She went down the perspective of trees to the edge of he clearing and I rose to follow for it seemed absolutely unsafe that she should be on the verge of the panther-haunted woods alone. Mrs. Ingmar turned a page of her book serenely; “She will not like it if you go. I cannot imagine that she should come to harm. She always goes her own way--light or dark.”