do so. And I grew to be resigned, and then glad, because it was a
greater thing."

Here a rapid, inexplicable change crossed her face. From its firmness
of health and strength, it fell toward the look of one "called"--

"I must go back again. Between Aunt Paula and me there was always a
great sympathy. It's hard to describe. Often we do not have to speak
even of the most important things. When I come to know more about other
people, I wondered at first why they needed to do so much talking.
Things have happened--things that I would not expect you to believe--"

She had kindled now, and she looked into his eyes like some sybil,
divinely unconscious, preaching the unbelievable.

"I knew dimly, as a child knows, and accepts, that Aunt Paula had some
wonderful mission and that it had to do with the other world--all
you're taught when they teach you to say your prayers. Little by little
she made me understand. I grew up before I understood fully. The
Guides--Aunt Paula's--I have none as yet--had told her that I was a
Light."

He caught at this word, for his lover's impatience was burning and
beating within him.

"Light!" he said; "my Light!"

She regarded him gravely, and then, as though his fervor had frightened
her, she looked beyond at the apple leaves.