be there--real mystics never do that, Turnbull."

"What things?" asked the other, incredulously.

MacIan lowered his voice. "I saw _her_," he said, "three minutes
ago--walking here in this hell yard."

Between trying to look scornful and really looking startled,
Turnbull's face was confused enough to emit no speech, and Evan
went on in monotonous sincerity:

"I saw her walk behind those blessed trees against that holy sky
of gold as plain as I can see her whenever I shut my eyes. I did
shut them, and opened them again, and she was still there--that
is, of course, she wasn't---- She still had a little fur round
her neck, but her dress was a shade brighter than when I really
saw her."

"My dear fellow," cried Turnbull, rallying a hearty laugh, "the
fancies have really got hold of you. You mistook some other poor
girl here for her."

"Mistook some other----" said MacIan, and words failed him
altogether.

They sat for some moments in the mellow silence of the evening
garden, a silence that was stifling for the sceptic, but utterly
empty and final for the man of faith. At last he broke out again
with the words: "Well, anyhow, if I'm mad, I'm glad I'm mad on
that."