“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.”

“What’s that?” suspiciously.

“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.”

Aunt Amy seemed glad to know this.

“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!”

“You explain it very beautifully,” gravely.  “I can quite understand that love might be like that.”

“Can you?” with a pleased smile.  “And can you understand how I feel it?  I can feel things in people, too.  Love and hate and envy and all kinds of things.  I never say so.  I used to, but people did not like it.  They always looked queer, or got angry.  They seemed to think I had no right to see inside of them.  So I soon pretended not to see anything.  But a letter doesn’t mind.  This one,” swinging the crumpled paper swiftly close to his face, “is glad I found it.  Can’t you feel it yourself?”

Callandar shook his head.  “I am far too dull and commonplace for that!” He smiled.  “But I have no doubt it is all there, just as you say.  Why not?  Our knowledge of such things is in its infancy.”

Aunt Amy stroked the paper with gentle fingers.  “Yes, yes, it is all there,” she murmured.  “But I may have read it wrongly for all that.  The written words I mean.  I can’t help reading what I feel.  Once I felt a letter that was full of hate, dreadful!  And I read quite shocking things in it.  But when Esther read it, it was just a polite note, beginning ‘Dear’ and ending ‘Your affectionate friend."’

“It might have been very hateful for all that.”

“But no one knew it.  That is why I am so anxious always to know if I read things right.  Will you read this letter to me?”