“At all events,” said I, “we have at least got to be willing to believe them, whether they ever come our way or not. For I dare say that when we die we shall be shown only as many marvels as we are prepared for.”
“For example, Nichola—” suggested Pelleas.
At her name we both smiled. Nichola would not believe in darkness itself if it did not cause her to stumble. And she would as soon harbour an understanding of, say, the way of the moon with the tides as she would be credulous of witchcraft. Any comprehension of the results of psychical research would necessitate in Nichola some such extension of thought as death will mean to Pelleas and me. The only mystery for which she has not an instant explanation is death; and even of that she once said: “There ain’t much of anything mysterious about it, as I see. It’s plain enough that we hev to be born. An’ that we can’t be kep’ goin’. So we die.”
No, Nichola would not be prepared for the marvels of afterward. The universe is not “her” universe. But as for Pelleas and me no phenomenon could put us greatly out of countenance or leave us wholly incredulous. Therefore as we stepped across the lawn in the darkness we were not too much amazed to hear very near us a little voice, like the voice of some of the little night folk; and obviously in talk with itself.
“No, no,” we heard it saying, “I don’t fink it would be right. No—it wouldn’t be the way folks ought to do. S’posin’ everybody went and did so? With theirs?”
It was Margaret. We knew her voice and at the turn of the path we paused, fearing to frighten her. But she had heard our talking and she ran toward us. In the dimness I saw that she wore her little pink bedrobe over her nightgown and her hair was in its bedtime braids.
“Margaret—dear!” I said, for it was late and it must have been hours since she had been left to sleep, “are you alone?”
“No,” she answered, “Halverson is here.”
She caught my fingers and her little hand was hot.
“Halverson wants me to change places with her,” she said.