when he comes he is not dead. Can you
believe it?"

"When I look at you and remember, I can believe anything. I do not
understand. I do not know where he comes from--or how, but I believe
that in some way you see him."

She had always been a natural and simple girl and it struck him that her
manner had never been a more natural one.

"_I_ do not know where he comes from," the clearness of a bell in her
voice. "He does not want me to ask him. He did not say so but I know.
When he is with me we know things without speaking words. We only talk
of happy things. I have not told him that--that I have been unhappy and
that I thought that perhaps I was really dead. He made me understand
about you--but he does not know anything--else. Yes--" eagerly, eagerly,
"you are believing--you are!"

"Yes--I am believing."

"If everything were as it used to be--I should see him and talk to him
in the day time. Now I see him and talk to him at night instead. You
see, it is almost the same thing. But we are really happier. We are
afraid of nothing and we only tell each other of happy things. We know
how wonderful everything is and that it was _meant_ to be like that. You
don't know how beautiful it is when you only think and talk about joyful
things! The other things fly away. Sometimes we go out onto the moor
together and the darkness is not darkness--it is a soft lovely thing as
beautiful as the light. We love it--and we can go as far as we like
because we are never tired. Being tired is one of the things that has
flown away and left us quite light. That is why I feel light in the day
and I am never tired or afraid. I _remember_ all the day."

As he listened, keeping his eyes on her serenely radiant face, he asked
himself what he should have been thinking if he had been a psychopathic
specialist studying her case. He at the same time realised that a
psychopathic specialist's opinion of what he himself--Lord
Coombe--thought would doubtless have been scientifically disconcerting.
For what he found that he thought was that, through some mysteriously
beneficent opening of portals kept closed through all the eons of time,
she who was purest love's self had strangely passed to places where
vision revealed things as they were created by that First Intention--of
which people sometimes glibly talked in London drawing-rooms. He had not
seen life so. He was not on her plane, but, as he heard her, he for the
time believed in its existence and f