There is one, for instance, about waking up in the woods at night, wrapped in my mother's shawl and seeing her face, all frightened and white, with the moon, like a great, silver eye, shining through the trees.

But I can't imagine why my mother would be hiding in the woods at night." "Why hiding ?" "There is a sense of hiding that comes with the memory--without anything to account for it But, although I do not remember connected incidents very well, I remember her--the feeling of having her with me.
And the terrible emptiness afterwards.

If she had gone quite away, all at once, I couldn't have borne it." "Do you mean that she had a long illness ?" asked Spence, greatly interested.
"No.

She died suddenly.

It was just--you will call it silly imagination--" she broke off uncertainly.
"I might call it imagination without the adjective." "Yes.