ONE evening during the late war I sat reading when I felt someone
blow in my neck. I was just about to turn round when I heard a scream
coming from upstairs. I went to see the reason, and, to my surprise,
I saw my little girl sitting up in bed terrified. I took her in my
arms and asked her what was the matter. She still looked afraid of a
something, and said, “Look, mama,” and, pointing to a corner of the
room, added, “There's daddy; a man up that tree has shot him; I saw
him do it, and now my daddy is dead.” She fainted in my arms as she
repeated “dead.” I ran to give her a drink to revive her, thinking it
was just a nightmare she had had. Eventually, she fell asleep. The
following week, I had news that my husband had been killed in action.
On making inquiries, I found he had been shot by a sniper who was
posted in a tree, and at the same hour as he had appeared to my
little girl.