'Yes, read to me--something funny, if you please. About Sam Weller! No, I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about Mr. Pickwick. He is very amusing. I feel sure that if he had tried to catch the bull-trout he would have fallen in. Just as Barbara did this morning.' 'Barbara?' 'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice German boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!' She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which bit shall I read?' 'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by mistake.' 'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you have begun to laugh already.' 'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!' She begins to read; they are both chuckling. A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son. 'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?' The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds. The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?' A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that time, but it is so irregular.' 'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but something prevents him.' 'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first seance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.' 'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?' A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I--but I wish I was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can't have a little light?' 'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it helps one to concentrate.' The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with one who has 'crossed the gulf.'