“No time has passed. There is no time. To the spirit a thousand years are as one day.” The last evening in the city came. They were to start for the springs early next day. The luggage was carefully packed and so their minds were easy on that score. When they went upstairs the house was perfectly still, all save themselves being asleep. They sat down in Chrissalyn’s room to chat. Cartice thought she never had seen the Butterfly look so young, so beautiful, so hopeful, so happy. Preparing the table for Planchette they eagerly awaited the messages that would surely come over that inexplicable telephone. Now something passing strange occurred. From the empty air beside them music burst forth--music the like of which they had never heard--music made by instruments unknown to them, but of unearthly sweetness, with power to thrill to the depths of their being. Awed and amazed the two friends looked at each other, in silence. Then, as its heavenly sweet vibrations shook their souls, the tears ran from their eyes, they knew not why. Again and again the unseen musicians made marvelous melody for the two enchanted listeners. Sometimes the chords were plaintively sad, sometimes joyous, but always penetrating the deepest recesses of being, the inner sanctuary where poetry and dreams have their high and heavenly dwelling-place. The two entranced listeners sat facing each other, lost in the delicious spell of the melody. Suddenly an electric breeze enveloped Cartice, sending over her that creepy thrill we are all familiar with, which resembles fear, but is not fear. There, before her eyes, just back of Chrissalyn, stood Prescott, looking exactly the same as when with them in material form. Somehow she was made to understand that she must not cry out--nor tell Chriss that he was there. Spellbound and silent she watched him. He laid his hand on the Butterfly’s shining head, smiled and spoke. She saw his lips move, and the glitter of his teeth, but heard no sound, understood no word. Then, while her eyes were still upon him, he vanished. “You look very pale, Cartice. Are you frightened?” Chrissalyn asked, as the music ceased. Mrs. Doring shook her head, for her tongue, dry and powerless, was no longer a willing servant. The music came back no more. After talking of the wonderful phenomenon awhile, they bade each other good-night and parted. Cartice could not sleep. The strange events of the evening drove away repose. Again and again she recalled the expression on Prescott’s face, trying to translate it into words, but in vain. Only one thing was plain. It was something pertaining to the Butterfly, and he didn’t want her to know it.