The little brushing kiss fell in the centre of my palm—as a gift on which the fingers were, once, expected to close: as the all faithful half-reproachful signal of a waiting child not used to neglect even when grown-ups were busiest—a fragment of the mute code devised very long ago.
Then I knew. And it was as though I had known from the first day when I looked across the lawn at the high window.
This is from “They” , a ghost story, collected in Traffics and Discoveries, and – because of its great popular appeal, published in a separate volume with the dream story “The Brushwood Boy”.
The story-teller, exploring the Sussex countryside, happens on a beautiful old house, set in a secret garden, a playground for happy children.
He makes friends with the blind lady whose home it is. and only later realises that they are the ghosts of lost children, including his own little daughter.