Under the dull gray light I saw the grass move--but not as it had moved, on the day before. It shriveled as if a flame had scorched it. No flame appeared. The brown underlying earth showed itself winding onward in a thin strip--which might have been a footpath traced in fire. It frightened me. I longed for the protection of the Invisible Presence. I prayed for a warning of it, if danger was near. A touch answered me. It was as if a hand unseen had taken my hand--had raised it, little by little--had left it, pointing to the thin brown path that wound toward me under the shriveled blades of grass. I looked to the far end of the path. The unseen hand closed on my hand with a warning pressure: the revelation of the coming danger was near me--I waited for it. I saw it. The figure of a man appeared, advancing toward me along the thin brown path. I looked in his face as he came nearer. It showed me dimly the face of my husband's brother--John Zant. The consciousness of myself as a living creature left me. I knew nothing; I felt nothing. I was dead. When the torture of revival made me open my eyes, I found myself on the grass. Gentle hands raised my head, at the moment when I recovered my senses. Who had brought me to life again? Who was taking care of me? I looked upward, and saw--bending over me--John Zant. VII. THERE, the manuscript ended. Some lines had been added on the last page; but they had been so carefully erased as to be illegible. These words of explanation appeared below the canceled sentences: "I had begun to write the little that remains to be told, when it struck me that I might, unintentionally, be exercising an unfair influence on your opinion. Let me only remind you that I believe absolutely in the supernatural revelation which I have endeavored to describe. Remember this--and decide for me what I dare not decide for myself." There was no serious obstacle in the way of compliance with this request. Judged from the point of view of the materialist, Mrs. Zant might no doubt be the victim of illusions (produced by a diseased state of the nervous system), which have been known to exist--as in the celebrated case of the book-seller, Nicolai, of Berlin--without being accompanied by derangement of the intellectual powers. But Mr. Rayburn was not asked to solve any such intricate problem as this. He had been merely instructed to read the manuscript, and to say what impression it had left on him of the mental condition of the writer; whose doubt of herself had been, in all probability, first suggested by remembrance of the illness from which she had suffered--brain-fever. Under these circumstances, there could be little difficulty in forming an opinion. The memory which had recalled, and the judgment which had arranged, the succession of events related in the narrative, revealed a mind in full possession of its resources.