“A bit of my brain garden which I have scarcely cultivated at all, and would rather not name, for I never have been sure of my title to it. In my early dreams it figured conspicuously; but of late years I have almost dropped it from my thoughts. The business of bread-winning pushes many a fair dream out of its sacred niche. In spite of the encouraging words of this message I doubt if I shall ever till that soil. I begin to feel too tired to make new departures. The torpor of indifference and weariness is creeping over me. The old spirit of action walks with a halting step, and turns its eyes longingly to the meadows of ease and indolence. I think I understand how car-horses feel. They know perfectly well that, whatever may happen to the rest of the world, for them there is only a steady, day-after-day pull till the end comes. Prescott used to say I wanted to eat my cake and have it too; but he didn’t know how feeble and weary I often was.” One evening when they called their unseen friends new wonders were shown them--wonders which took place under laws beyond their penetration. The Butterfly wore a fresh white rose on her breast. When Prescott announced himself, his first words were of its beauty and fragrance. “Can you see it?” Cartice asked. “Certainly.” “And smell it?” “Of course. Give it to me, Butterfly! Give it to me,” he wrote, with eager energy. “Well, take it,” said Chrissalyn, smiling at the impossible request. “I am in earnest. I really want it. Hold it in your hand directly in front of you, and see me take it.” Laughing at what she believed to be a bit of pleasantry, she took the rose from her breast, and held it between her thumb and finger, saying, in mimicry of the old-time heroine of novels, “Please accept this token of my esteem.” Instantly, quicker than a flash, with a suddenness indescribable, it disappeared, vanished completely, in the sight of both pairs of eyes. Whither? Could vacant space swallow a tangible object? Impossible. Yet this impossibility was accomplished. The fact stunned them. Each looked in the face of the other, and clasped the other’s hand to make sure they were not dreaming. “I should be frightened speechless if any one else than Prescott had done that,” said the Butterfly, pallid and trembling. “Let us ask him about it,” said Cartice, who was shaken, too. With some reluctance, Chrissalyn asked Prescott how he had taken the rose. “By means of what some of your scientific people call the Fourth Dimension of Space,” he replied. “Can you explain it more clearly?” “No; I have no terms in which to make it plain to you. It is all natural enough, however, and comes under a law as yet not known to your world. Now wait a moment and I will bring you a flower by means of the same law.”