"That's it, mamma. I have never seen anything that did not seem quite
natural to me."
"Did you know that Mrs. Allen had died when you--thought you saw her?"
"I did see her."
"Yes.... Did you know she had died?"
"Not until I saw her."
"Did you know it then?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I don't know how I knew it. I seemed to know it."
"Did you know she had been ill?"
"No, mamma."
"Did it in any way frighten you--make you uneasy when you saw her
standing there?"
"Why, no," said Athalie, surprised.
"Not even when you knew she was dead?"
"No. Why should it? Why should I be afraid?"
Her mother was silent.
"Why?" asked Athalie, curiously. "Is there anything to be afraid of
with God and all his angels watching us? Is there?"
"No."
"Then," said the child with some slight impatience, "why is it that
other people seem to be a little afraid of me and of what they say I
can hear and see? I have good eyesight; I see clearly; that is all,
isn't it? And there is nothing to frighten anybody in seeing clearly,
is there?"
"No, dear."
"People make me so cross," continued Athalie,--"and so ashamed when
they ask so many questions. What is there to be surprised at if
sometimes I see things inside my mind. They are just as real as when
I see them outside. They are no different."
Her mother nodded, encouragingly.
"When papa was in New York," went on Athalie, "and I saw him talking
to some men in a hotel there, why should it be surprising just because
papa was in New York and I was here when I saw him?"
"It surprises others, dear, because they cannot see what is beyond the
vision of their physical senses."
Athalie said: "They tease me in school because they say I can see
around corners. It makes me very cross and unhappy, and I don't want
anybody to know that I see what they can't see. I'm ashamed to have
them know it."
"Perhaps it is just as well you feel that way. People are odd. What
they do not understand they ridicule. A dog that would not notice a
horse-drawn vehicle will bark at an automobile."
"Mamma?"