At this tribute to her kindness from beyond the grave Cartice dropped a grateful tear. The Colonel’s nature had something childlike and sweet in it, in spite of its many defects. Most of his faults had been of a peevish and childish order. “Thank you, Colonel Layton,” Cartice answered. “I am glad to hear from you.” “Mrs. Doring, do you remember the conversation I had with you an hour or so before I made the final journey?” “Perfectly.” “I sang about death being a narrow sea that divides your world from the land of pure delight. Well, it’s a very narrow sea--so narrow we can step across. In fact it isn’t a sea at all, for the two worlds are not really divided. They only seem to be.” Several times Mrs. Layton’s friend, Jessie, came. When asked whether she threw flowers at her own funeral, she said she did; that she knew beforehand that Chriss had the faculty of seeing certain things others could not, and had it in mind before she went away that she would do something to prove that death was only an illusion. Cartice’s great grandfather, who died before she was born, came and wrote his name in full, which she did not herself know. He told things pertaining to the family, which she afterward verified, among them being the name of the political party to which he belonged, and which had long been extinct. His handwriting was of an older style, and he wrote with a deliberation uncommon in the present day. Some communications purported to come from North American Indians, mighty chiefs and stalwart braves with great dignity of manner and imposing names. After a time, however, Cartice inclined to the opinion that both the manner and the names were masks used to conceal identities that did not wish to be known. They spoke in the figurative style attributed to gifted red men, and for the most part their messages were interesting and instructive. Once when Mrs. Doring was very tired and discouraged one of them wrote: “Is it not a pleasure to the squaw to convince the braves and old men that she teaches many truths? She must not let the ink dry in her horn, for she can carry many braves with her in the councils.” Again, apparently overhearing the two investigators of psychic law talk of some poor, pitiful, hide-bound persons who found fault with everybody that did not revolve within their pint-measure orbit, this same Red Feather, as he called himself, wrote with emphatic force: “Be not tied by the ways of others. The eagle cannot fly with the wings of a chicken.” One evening Prescott wrote a few minutes and then excused himself from further work, saying that something had just occurred which made him too nervous to write. His two friends looked at each other in speechless astonishment. Here was a mystery beyond other mysteries. Too nervous? Were not nerves but parts of the body, destined to dust with the rest of it? Evidently understanding their amazement, he added this line after a moment’s pause: