"I have heard very sensitive people express some such idea. It sounds very fascinating. I should like very much to hear about it."
"Would you? You are sure you won't think me queer? My niece, Mary Coombe, does not like me to tell people about it. She has no imagination herself, none at all. She says it is all nonsense. But I think," shrewdly, "that she would like to know some of the things that I know. Won't you come in, Doctor? Come in and sit under the tree where it is cooler."
The doctor's hesitation was but momentary. He was keenly interested. And at the back of his mind was the thought that Esther must certainly be along presently. Fate had not favoured him of late. He had not seen her for five days. It is foolish to leave meetings to fate anyway. Then, if another reason were needed it was probable that if he stayed he would meet Esther's mother. He was beginning to feel quite curious about Mrs. Coombe.
"Thanks. I think I will come in. All the trees in Coombe are cool, but your elm is the coolest of them all. Let me arrange this cushion for you. Is that right?"
He settled Aunt Amy comfortably upon the least sloping portion of the old circular bench and, not wishing to trust it with his own weight, sat down upon the grass at her feet.
"Now," he said cheerfully, "let us have a regular psychic research meeting. Tell me all about it."
"Psychic research? Oh, just finding out all about the queer things that happen to people."
"Do queer things happen to other people besides me?"
"Why, of course! Queer things happen to everybody."
"They never talk about them," she said wistfully. "But, then, neither do I. Except to you. What was it you wanted me to tell you?"
"Tell me what you mean when you say that you read in a letter what is not written there. You see I haven't much imagination myself and I don't understand it."
"Neither do I," naively. "But it seems to be like this--take this letter, for instance, when I found it in--well, it doesn't matter where I found it--but as soon as I picked it up, I knew that it was a love letter. I felt it. It is an old letter, I think. And some one has been angry with it. See, it is all crumpled. But it is a real love letter. All the love is there yet. When I took it in my hands it all came out to me, sweet and strong. Like--like the scent of something keen, fragrant, on a swift wind. I can't explain it!"