was feeling what everybody else in the world felt. She hadn't any
idea she was different.

"You know," she said, "how it is when you sit quiet, you know it's
there--something good, it floods all over you. It's like people you love
make you feel, only more. Just like something beautiful that can get
right inside your heart!"

Now this may seem queer to you, for Moira was only a little girl of
twelve, but there was a look on her face of just sheer, wonderful love,
the way you see a girl look sometimes, or a young mother. It was so
beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes. That was the last time I
worried about Moira for a long time, for, think I, anything as beautiful
as that is holy even if it ain't regular.

I told Mis' MacFarland about our talk.

"What do you think she means when she says 'her good'? Is it like
feeling God's near?" I asked. She shook her head.

"I don't believe it," she said. "It's more human than that. I think it's
someone _out there_ that Moira loves--"

"How you talk!" I said. "Someone out there! If you keep on like this
you'll be fey, as my old grandmother used to call it."

"Well," she said, "when you get to where I am, lots of things that seem
curious at first thought don't seem a mite more curious than birth or
death. Not as curious even, when you come to think about it. What's
there so curious I'd like to know, Jane McQuarry, about sensing the
feelings of somebody else off to a distance? How about your own mother,
the night your brother was lost at sea; didn't she know that and hadn't
you all mourned him dead for two months before the real word came to
you?"

I couldn't deny this, and I felt that the wind was taken out of my
sails. I suppose it was all along with that feeling of hers, with not
making a difference between those that were dead and those that were
not. All the world was mysterious, and she had a sense of the wonder of
the least blade of grass in it, so the things that were not so usual as
you might say didn't disturb her any.

"Why," says she, "sometimes I sit in a maze just to look at this room."

"Why, what ails this room?" said I.

'T was a room like many you've seen hereabouts, with a good horse-hair
sofy and the mahogany furniture nice and shiny from being varnished
every spring, and over the sofy was thrown a fur rug made in lozenges of
harp seal and some other fur and a dark fur border. It was real
pretty--it was always wonderful to me that folks like Eskimos