"A little girl came to me on a certain occasion and said to me, 'Please go and see my mother and tell her I am not dead.' 'Where does your mother live?' I inquired. After giving me the necessary directions where and how to find her, I said: 'But your mother is a stranger to me, and perhaps if I go to her on an errand of that kind she will drive me from her door.' 'No she won't,' interposed the little pleader, 'she will be glad to learn that I am not under the cold ground but alive.' I marshaled the courage to go, yet I greatly feared the result. I was met at the door by the one I desired to see, and without giving sufficient time to explain the object of my call, I was cordially welcomed indoors. After being seated, and after the usual courtesies had passed, I opened the subject by saying, 'You have a little girl that has gone to the other world?' 'Yes,' said she, falling into tears, 'she was a dear, darling child, and I have had no rest since she left me. She was the idol of my heart, and it seems that I can never become reconciled to her death. Really, at times, I can scarcely realize that she is dead.' Here a pause ensued, and her grief was so intense that the waters of sympathetic sorrow involuntarily flowed down my own cheeks. Rallying, however, as quickly as I could, I said: 'My good woman, your Mary is not dead. She stands there by your side and wants me to say to you, 'Mother, I am not dead; do not weep for me, for I am still with you.' 'How! What does this mean?' exclaimed the mother in apparent bewilderment, 'I saw her poor little precious body consigned to the cold and cheerless grave.' 'Yes,' I interrupted, 'but her spirit--the immortal and only valuable part of herself--was not buried beneath the ground. Hold, she wishes me to describe her, and further, to prove her identity. She is a bright, blue-eyed girl of eleven or twelve summers, light auburn hair naturally inclined to curl, and falls in beautiful ringlets around her neck, forehead of the Grecian mold, face even and rounded, with a mark resembling a raspberry under her right eye, and she died from scarlatina.' 'Why, did you know Mary when she was living?' was immediately asked. I assured her I did not. 'Does the description fit her?' I inquired. 'Perfectly,' was the reply; 'who told you about her,' she added. I answered: 'My good woman, believe me, until to-day I did not know you were in existence. The facts I have stated to you I obtained from your Mary without the slightest knowledge of either your or her history.' After further conversation on the subject, and after describing other spirits, whom she readily recognized, the interview terminated, with a pressing invitation to return, and the assurances that she had derived from my visit inexpressible joy and happiness. In a few days thereafter I was unexpectedly called away from St. Louis and have never returned. Letters from friends who were cognizant of the circumstance as related by herself, inform me that Mrs.