“Then it gave a terrible answer:  it said, ‘What is God?’

“And when I heard these words there came over me a wild kind of pity, such as I used to feel when I saw my little child struggling for breath when he was ill, and I held out my arms to this poor lonely thing, but it shrank back, crying: 

“’Speak to me, but do not touch me, brave human creature.  I am all death, and if you come too near me the Death in me may kill the life in you.’

“But I said:  ’No Death can kill the life in me, even though it kill my body.  Dear fellow-spirit, I cannot tell you what I know; but let me take you in my arms; rest for an instant on my heart, and perhaps I may make you feel what I feel all around us.’

“And as I spoke I threw my arms around the shadowy form and strained it to my breast.  And I felt as if I were pressing to me only air, but air colder than any ice, so that my heart seemed to stop beating, and I could hardly breathe.  But I still clasped it closer and closer, and as I grew colder it seemed to grow less chill.

“And at last it spoke, and the whisper was not far away, but near.  It said: 

“‘It is enough; now I know what God is!’

“After that I remember nothing more, till I woke up and found myself lying on the floor beside the bed.  It was morning, and the spirit was not there; but I have a strong feeling that I have been able to help it, and that it will trouble you no more.

“Surely it is late!  I must go at once.  I promised to have tea with the children.”

* * * * *

Neither of us spoke; neither of us stirred; when the sound of her light footfall was heard no more, there was complete silence.  Below, the mists had gathered so thickly that now they spread across the valley one dead white sea of vapour in which village and woods and stream were all buried—­all except the little church spire, that, still unsubmerged, pointed triumphantly to the sky; and what a sky!  For that which yesterday had steeped us in cold and darkness, now, piled even to the zenith in mountainous cloud-masses, was dyed, every crest and summit of it, in crimson fire, pouring from a great fount of colour, where, to the west, the heavens opened to show that wonder-world whence saints and singers have drawn their loveliest images of the Rest to come.

But perhaps I saw all things irradiated by the light which had risen upon my darkness—­the light that never was on land or sea, but shines reflected in the human face.

* * * * *

“George, I am waiting for your interpretation.”

“It is very simple, Lindy,” he said.

But there was a tone in his voice I had heard once—­and only once—­before, when, through the first terrible hours that followed my accident, he sat patiently beside me in the darkened room, holding my hot hand in his broad cool palm.

“It is very simple.  It is the most easily explained of all the accounts.  It was a dream from beginning to end.  She fell asleep praying, thinking, as she says; what was more natural or inevitable than that she should dream of the ghost?  And it all confirms what I say:  that visions are composed by the person who sees them.  Nothing could be more characteristic of Cissy than the story she has just told us.”