“No, I do not,” answered Angela, after a minute’s thought.  “I have no doubt that the veil between ourselves and the unseen world is thinner than we think.  I believe, too, that communication, and even warnings sometimes, under favourable conditions, or when the veil is worn thin by trouble or prayer, can pass from the other world to ourselves.  But the very fact of my father’s terror proves to me that his shadows are nothing of the sort, for it is hardly possible that spirits can be permitted to come to terrify us poor mortals; if they come at all, it is in love and gentleness, to comfort or to warn, and not to work upon our superstitions.”

“You speak as though you knew all about it; you should join the new Ghost Society,” he answered, irreverently, sitting himself down on a fallen tree, an example that she followed.

“I have thought about it sometimes, that is all, and, so far as I have read, I think that my belief is a common one, and what the Bible teaches us; but, if you will not think me foolish, I will tell you something that confirms me in it.  You know that my mother died when I was born; well, it may seem strange to you, but I am convinced that she is sometimes very near me.”

“Do you mean that you see or hear her?”

“No, I only feel her presence; more rarely now, I am sorry to say, as I grow older.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can hardly explain what I mean, but sometimes—­it may be at night, or when I am sitting alone in the daytime—­a great calm comes upon me, and I am a changed woman.  All my thoughts rise into a higher, purer air, and are, as it were, tinged with a reflected light; everything earthly seems to pass away from me, and I feel as though fetters had fallen from my soul, and I know that I am near my mother.  Then everything passes, and I am left myself again.”

“And what are the thoughts you have at these times?”

“Ah!  I wish I could tell you; they pass away with her who brought them, leaving nothing but a vague after-glow in my mind like that in the sky after the sun has set.  But now look at the view; is it not beautiful in the sunlight?  All the world seems to be rejoicing.”

Angela was right; the view was charming.  Below lay the thatched roofs of the little village of Bratham, and to the right the waters of the lake shone like silver in the glancing sunlight, whilst the gables of the old house, peeping out from amongst the budding foliage, looked very picturesque.  The spring had cast her green garment over the land; from every copse rang out the melody of birds, and the gentle breeze was heavy with the scent of the unnumbered violets that starred the mossy carpet at their feet.  In the fields where grew the wheat and clover, now springing into lusty life, the busy weeders were at work, and on the warm brown fallows the sower went forth to sow.  From the early pastures beneath, where purled a little brook, there came a pleasant lowing of kine, well-contented with the new grass, and a cheerful bleating of lambs, to whom as yet life was nothing but one long skip.  It was a charming scene, and its influence sank deep into the gazers’ hearts.