"Not as we see her. He thinks that she is in his mind only." Then after an uncomfortable silence, she added suddenly, "She is really a thought, you know. She is his thought of her—but he doesn't know that she is visible to the rest of us."
"And he brings her back by thinking of her?"
She leaned nearer while a quiver passed over her features and the flush deepened in her cheeks. "That is the only way she comes back—the only way she has the power to come back—as a thought. There are months and months when she leaves us in peace because he is thinking of other things, but of late, since his illness, she has been with him almost constantly." A sob broke from her, and she buried her face in her hands. "I suppose she is always trying to come—only she is too vague—and she hasn't any form that we can see except when he thinks of her as she used to look when she was alive. His thought of her is like that, hurt and tragic and revengeful. You see, he feels that he ruined her life because she died when the child was coming—a month before it would have been born."
"And if he were to see her differently, would she change? Would she cease to be revengeful if he stopped thinking her so?"
"God only knows. I've wondered and wondered how I might move her to pity."
"Then you feel that she is really there? That she exists outside of his mind?"
"How can I tell? What do any of us know of the world beyond? She exists as much as I exist to you or you to me. Isn't thought all that there is—all that we know?"
This was deeper than I could follow; but in order not to appear stupid, I murmured sympathetically.
"And does she make him unhappy when she comes?"
"She is killing him—and me. I believe that is why she does it."