Mrs. Doring tried to speak, but her mouth was parched and dry, her tongue leaden. She could only point with her finger at the writing. “Yes, yes; but it’s only foolishness--a line out of one of Moore’s old songs. Don’t be frightened at the silly thing. It must have come from my mind somehow, though I wasn’t thinking of it.” “It means everything to me,” Cartice gasped at last. “I understand it. Try again, dear. Try again. I will explain presently.” Rather rebelliously Chrissalyn straightened Planchette and put her tiny hand again upon it, growling; “I feel more like smashing the mischievous thing than humoring it, since it gave you such a fright.” “It was not fright, dear. It was astonishment, awe, wonder--many emotions blended, but fear was not among them.” Several minutes passed but Planchette moved not. The operator’s patience would have been exhausted, had not her friend kept her faithful to the work with cheering speeches. Presently the weird little instrument began to walk off again, leaving this line in big, bold letters: “_Gaily, the Troubadour, offers his love once more to the tall, young pine._” Cartice read it aloud, then threw up her hands and burst into weeping--a weeping that was half-laughing, an ebullition of pent-up emotion like that which comes at the fortunate ending of a long strain of anxiety. “He lives! He lives!” she cried, in passionate joy. “All live--all, all who have gone out of our sight into the silence. Not one is dead. Not one has ever died. The greatest of questions is answered.” Picking up Planchette she touched her lips to it reverently. Then putting her arms around her dazed friend, she kissed her again and again, saying: