“Did you go to Silas Farnum’s?” was Molly’s first question, and her father confessed having done precisely as Amos had predicted; but while giving a truthful account of his experience, he told the story in a half-jesting manner, attributing his compulsory visit to some hypnotic influence, and to a temporary irresponsibility of his own. His daughter, however, was not deceived. Her belief in a supernatural agency renewed its strength. As for her father, he had never been more at sea in the solution of a problem. In his own mind the only explanation was by the dominance of another mind over his own, by a force presumably mesmeric. The fact that Amos himself was also a victim rendered that theory difficult to accept, unless both were dupes of some third person. If at the time of his visit to Silas Farnum he had been ill, or weak, or in a nervous condition, or had it occurred at night when the imagination might get the better of one’s judgment, there would have been the possibility of an explanation on physical grounds. But that he, James Cabot, of good health and strength, should, in the sunlight of a summer noon, be the powerless victim of such an influence, was a theory so mortifying and preposterous as to upset his usual processes of reason. It was not until the next afternoon that an opportunity was given for a word with Amos. Out on the grass, beneath a huge elm at the easterly corner of the house, Mr. Cabot, in a bamboo chair, was reclining with his paper, when he noticed his young friend cantering briskly along the road on a chestnut horse. Amos saw him, turned his animal toward the low stone wall that separated the Cabots’ field from the highway, cleared it with an easy jump and came cantering over the grass. “Is that old Betty? I didn’t know she was a jumper.” “Oh, yes. She has a record.” Dismounting, he faced her about and, with a tap on the flank, told her to go home. She returned, however, and showed a desire to rub noses with him. “Well, have your way, old lady,” and leaving her to a feast of clover he threw himself on the ground at Mr. Cabot’s feet. “You are a kind man to your animals, Amos, although you may be somewhat offensive as a prophet.” “So you went, after all?” “Went where?” “To see Silas Farnum.” “Did I say that?” Amos looked up with a smile that could have a dozen meanings. His wily companion, from a sense of professional caution, wished to feel his way before committing himself. “You think I went, after all?” “Yes, sir, I know you did, from my own experience.” “Which is that the events inevitably occur as foreseen?” “Always.” “Well, I will make a clean breast of it and tell you just what happened.” “I know it already, Mr. Cabot, as well as if you had told me.” “Do you know of my resolve not to do it? Of my ineffectual resistance and the sensations I experienced?” “I think so. I have been through it all myself.”