For answer she said: "Father never wished to speak about this.

It attracted my attention from the first; but when I asked him about it he said: 'I shall tell you all about it some day, little girl--if I live! But not yet! The story is not yet told, as I hope to tell it to you! Some day, perhaps soon, I shall know all; and then we shall go over it together.

And a mighty interesting story you will find it--from first to last!' Once afterward I said, rather lightly I am afraid: 'Is that story of the sarcophagus told yet, Father ?' He shook his head, and looked at me gravely as he said: 'Not yet, little girl; but it will be--if I live--if I live!' His repeating that phrase about his living rather frightened me; I never ventured to ask him again." Somehow this thrilled me.

I could not exactly say how or why; but it seemed like a gleam of light at last.

There are, I think, moments when the mind accepts something as true; though it can account for neither the course of the thought, nor, if there be more than one thought, the connection between them.