If any one had told Kitty Tynan that she had rare imagination, she would have wondered what was meant.

If anyone had said to her, "What are you dreaming about, Kitty ?" she would have understood, however, for she had had fits of dreaming ever since she was a child, and they had increased during the past few years--since the man came to live with them whose coat she was brushing.

Perhaps this was only imitation, because the man had a habit of standing or sitting still and looking into space for minutes--and on Sundays for hours--at a time; and often she had watched him as he lay on his back in the long grass, head on a hillock, hat down over his eyes, while the smoke from his pipe came curling up from beneath the rim.

Also she had seen him more than once sitting with a letter before him and gazing at it for many minutes together.

She had also noted that it was the same letter on each occasion; that it was a closed letter, and also that it was unstamped.