“You were born a wonderful little creature, and Angus Macayre has filled your mind with strange, rich furnishings and marvelous color and form,” Mrs. MacNairn actually said to me one day when we were sitting together and she was holding my hand and softly, slowly patting it.  She had a way of doing that, and she had also a way of keeping me very near her whenever she could.  She said once that she liked to touch me now and then to make sure that I was quite real and would not melt away.  I did not know then why she said it, but I understood afterward.

Sometimes we sat under the apple-tree until the long twilight deepened into shadow, which closed round us, and a nightingale that lived in the garden began to sing.  We all three loved the nightingale, and felt as though it knew that we were listening to it.  It is a wonderful thing to sit quite still listening to a bird singing in the dark, and to dare to feel that while it sings it knows how your soul adores it.  It is like a kind of worship.

We had been sitting listening for quite a long time, and the nightingale had just ceased and left the darkness an exquisite silence which fell suddenly but softly as the last note dropped, when Mrs. MacNairn began to talk for the first time of what she called The Fear.

I don’t remember just how she began, and for a few minutes I did not quite understand what she meant.  But as she went on, and Mr. MacNairn joined in the talk, their meaning became a clear thing to me, and I knew that they were only talking quite simply of something they had often talked of before.  They were not as afraid of The Fear as most people are, because they had thought of and reasoned about it so much, and always calmly and with clear and open minds.

By The Fear they meant that mysterious horror most people feel at the thought of passing out of the world they know into the one they don’t know at all.

How quiet, how still it was inside the walls of the old garden, as we three sat under the boughs and talked about it!  And what sweet night scents of leaves and sleeping flowers were in every breath we drew!  And how one’s heart moved and lifted when the nightingale broke out again!

“If one had seen or heard one little thing, if one’s mortal being could catch one glimpse of light in the dark,” Mrs. MacNairn’s low voice said out of the shadow near me, “The Fear would be gone forever.”

“Perhaps the whole mystery is as simple as this,” said her son’s voice “as simple as this:  that as there are tones of music too fine to be registered by the human ear, so there may be vibrations of light not to be seen by the human eye; form and color as well as sounds; just beyond earthly perception, and yet as real as ourselves, as formed as ourselves, only existing in that other dimension.”

There was an intenseness which was almost a note of anguish in Mrs. MacNairn’s answer, even though her voice was very low.  I involuntarily turned my head to look at her, though of course it was too dark to see her face.  I felt somehow as if her hands were wrung together in her lap.