"Mamma, I never try. I--I don't care to see them. I'd rather not.
Those things come. I haven't anything to do with it. I don't know
these people, and I am not interested. I did try to see papa in New
York--if you call that imagination."
But her mother did not know what to call it because at the hour when
Athalie had seen him, that mild and utterly unimaginative man was
actually saying and doing what his daughter had seen and heard.
"Also," said Athalie, "I was thinking about that poor little yellow
dog and wondering whether he was past all suffering, when he came
gaily trotting into the garden, waving his tail quite happily. There
was no dust or blood on him. He rolled on the grass, too, and barked
and barked. But nobody seemed to hear him or notice him excepting I."
For a long while silence reigned in the lamp-lit room. When the other
children came in to say good night to their mother she received them
with an unusual tenderness. They went away; Athalie rose, yawning the
yawn of healthy fatigue: "Good night, mamma."
"Good night, little daughter."
They kissed: the mother drew her into a sudden and almost convulsive
embrace.
"Darling, are you sure that nothing really dies?"
"I have never seen anything really dead, mamma. Even the 'dead'
birds,--why, the evening sky is full of them--the little 'dead' ones
I mean--flock after flock, twittering and singing--"
"Dear!"
"Yes, mamma."
"When you see me--that way--will you--speak?"
"Yes."
"Promise, darling."
"Yes.... I'll kiss you, too--if it is possible...."
"Would it be possible?"
The child gazed at her, perplexed and troubled: "I--don't--know," she
said slowly. Then, all in a moment her childish face paled and she
clung to her mother and began to cry.
And her mother soothed her, tenderly, smilingly, kissing the tears
from the child's eyes.
The next morning after the children had gone to school Mrs.
Greensleeve was operated on--without success.