“There may be a reason why the simplest and apparently most inoffensive question may give pain, so I never ask any. I have no wish to, for I have no curiosity. When I make a new acquaintance I am not concerned with the locality of his birth, the residence of his parents, or any part of his personal history. What he _is_ individually, not the accidents of his life, interests me, and that reveals itself as I become acquainted with him, without any probing on my part. Neither do I wish to bore into the sacred recesses of a friend’s heart. What she tells me I shall listen to lovingly; what she does not tell me I do not even wish to know.” Hence it was that when the Butterfly fell into a meditative mood one evening when they were together, Cartice did not disturb her. By and by Chrissalyn said: “I dreamed of Prescott last night. At least I suppose it was a dream, though it seemed extremely real. I was walking on the street and met him, and he held in his hand that queer little heart-shaped toy somebody sent you once--a thing with a French name that I don’t recall now, but you said it meant ‘little board.’--It has three legs, and one of them is a pencil.” “A planchette,” suggested Mrs. Doring. “Yes; that’s it. Well, Prescott held that up before me and said, ‘Try it, Butterfly! Try it!’” Cartice’s eyes widened with interest. “You remember we did try to write with it once long ago,” said the Butterfly, “but it only wrote foolishness, so we flung it aside and never tried again. I have been thinking about it all day, and should like to try it again, for I can’t get Prescott’s face, as I saw it last night, out of my mind.” The planchette was brought forth, and its history retold. The donor was a man from whom Death had taken every member of his family. For years the desire of his heart had been to know if the dead are dead, or if they still live though unseen of men. After he went to another city, he wrote Mrs. Doring that he had received some startling revelations through Planchette, and sent her one, that she might experiment for herself. Having some ability with the brush and palette, he had painted an allegory on the under side of the tiny walnut board. Psyche in the celestial robes was passing upward out of sight. Cupid in fashionable modern attire, had thrown aside his bow and arrows, and held his right hand on a Planchette, upon which he concentrated all his attention, saying to it: “Tell me hopeful messages To beguile earth’s sorrow; But of evil things, Oh! keep Silence till to-morrow. Then, perchance, I’ll be asleep.” “A pretty thought,” said Cartice, displaying the picture, and reading the text aloud. “Love is always anxious to know the fate of the soul. He hopes, but seeks for something to keep hope alive. Benson wrote me extraordinary things about Planchette, but I tried it several times and got nothing.”