Julio Murillo was the first to gain control of himself, and addressing the señorita, said: “If we were living in the year of 1898—at that time when Hermannism was in vogue, when the ignorant, the credulous often employed these delvers in mechanical spirits, and paid them large sums to look into the future and disclose their fate—I say, if we were back in that infant age of spiritualistic progress—I would at once avow that you had been to see one of those prophets.” Marriet Motuble replied: “You forget, friend Julio, that I, as well as yourself, existed years ago. Then you were not so distinguished as now. We lived in the very year about which you have just spoken. Women were then said to be mysterious beings, as well as the beings who could fathom all secrets. The Great One to whom you pay silent tribute, has seen fit through all these years to perpetuate the gentler (?) sex, and with much the same disposition she then had. But really, gentlemen, it is unbecoming in me to be telling three renowned scientists, discoverers of ‘Memory Fluid,’ about what existed at a previous age, or how I came into possession of a knowledge of your ‘Ebony Fluid.’ Besides, I am lingering longer than my time admits. Pour some more ‘Memory Fluid’ down John, so he will call to mind his own offspring lying in a semi-conscious state in the adjoining room.” “What is the meaning of your words, Miss Motuble? Let me entreat you to linger a few moments longer and explain. You can aid us materially in making this affair clear.” Miss Motuble’s eyes shone with love, and with outstretched hands she started toward the object of her affection, and in a low voice, yet plainly audible to all present, said: “Dearie!” Her whole nature changed outwardly in an instant. She whirled her large frame around as easily as if it worked on pivots, and walking to the door, said: “There are other days, gentlemen, other days. Patience is a necessary requisite to success. You will pardon me if I leave now. Julio, thy mother’s seducer, thy father, is heading the present movement against the State.” “Impossible!” they exclaimed in one breath. “Retribution overtook him in his first existence. Impossible!” Again she gave way to a fit of laughter, and said: “Impossible, hey? nothing is impossible. Don Francisco R. Cantu y Falomir has evidently not been recognized by you. Ha! ha! Well, this is an age of discovery!” Stepping up to Mr. Niksab (who still sat on a low chair, his face buried in his hands, seemingly unconscious to everything taking place around him), she slapped him soundly on the shoulder, a custom with men of bad breeding, in the nineteenth century, who were very friendly with each other and demonstrated their friendliness by this coarse greeting. He sprang to his feet and looked in a bewildered way all around him. “Ha! ha! ha! ha! Friend Niksab, you can have your hand in the righting of a few other wrongs, if you say so.”