‘Oh, Swami,’ she exclaimed, at length; for she could wait no longer—‘whose kingdom shall I govern, and where are my dominions? Is it well that one so ignorant of State affairs as I should be advanced to such immense responsibility—such power—such glory? Thou hast indeed painted a picture glowing with bright colour. Should not thy psychic power point to some experienced potentate, more worthy than I? Is not this a word-blunder—some curious coincidence of name that hath upset thy calculations? It is not I, Mercia, the astronomer, who is destined for this brilliant future; this most glorious career?’ ‘It is thou, Mercia, and no other,’ responded Swami impressively—‘there is no king, or high potentate better fitted for this proud position. If thou art filled with doubts, see the proof, and banish thy scepticism forthwith. Come hither, and look upon thy portrait, brain-painted upon the sensitive plate beneath the crystal.’ Taking her hand he led her, all quivering with emotion, into the dark chamber, when turning on the energy he displayed the glittering picture, ablaze with brilliant colouring; every figure presenting that aspect of roundness, which seemed to endow it almost with life. ‘Oh! It is myself—my very self!’ she exclaimed excitedly, her face lit up with the intensity of her varying sensations. ‘How beautiful! Is it possible that I shall ever look like that? What splendid jewelled robes! What a magnificent crown, all ablaze with costly diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies! How rich the Indian gold appears of which the throne is composed, set in contrast with the white marble of the floor! ‘What a glorious assemblage of Eastern princes, paying homage to their Empress, and arrayed in all their courtly splendour! This is, truly, a scene from some ancient Eastern fairy tale, told thousands of years ago by the imaginative Asiatic, and thou, Swami, hast made my portrait its centre-piece. Is it not so?’ she inquired; for her inherent modesty made her doubt again. Then, Swami, his dark, speaking eyes filling with tears, and his heart swelling with deep disappointment at seeing her doubt his integrity, for a moment turned upon her a sad, reproachful gaze; when immediately, a sudden passion seized him, forcing him prematurely, and against his judgment, to give it utterance. ‘Mercia, dost thou doubt me? Would I deceive the one being for whom my heart yearns? I love thee—I love thee, thou gifted one! Thou art, indeed, soul of my soul, life of my life! Thou art the true living elixir; the true soul-energy which can for all time support my spirit. Thou dost inspire a new energy into my being—a new goal for my aspirations! Thy life-essence can alone mingle with mine, for only thy soul can hold communion with mine.