“Well, what authority have you for the supposition that there are no undignified spirits? We know there are weak and wicked spirits _in_ the flesh; why not _out_ of the flesh? A spirit, or an intelligence claiming to be one, writes an ungrammatical sentence or a pompous commonplace, and signs _Bacon_ to it; and you forthwith exclaim, ‘Pooh! this can’t come from a spirit.’ How do you know that? Mayn’t lies be told in other worlds than this? Will the ignoramus at once be made a scholar,—the dullard a philosopher,—the blackguard a gentleman,—the sinner a saint,—the liar truthful,—by the simple process of elimination from this husk of flesh? Make me at once altogether other than what I am, and you annihilate me, and there is no immortality of the soul.” “But what has the ghost contributed to our knowledge during these fourteen years, since he appeared at Rochester? Of all he has brought us, we may say, with Shakespeare, ‘There needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us that.’” “I’ll tell you what the ghost has contributed, not at Rochester merely, but everywhere, through the ages. He has contributed _himself_. You say, _cui bono?_ And I might say of ten thousand mysteries about us, _cui bono?_ The lightning strikes the church-steeple,—_cui bono?_ An idiot is born into the world,—_cui bono?_ It is absurd to demand as a condition of rational faith, that we should prove a _cui bono_. A good or a use may exist, and we be unable to see it. And yet grave men are continually thrusting into the faces of the investigators of these phenomena this preposterous _cui bono?_” “Enough, my dear Mr. Kenrick!” exclaimed Laura. But he was not to be stopped. He rose and paced the room, and continued: “The _cui bono_ of phenomena must of course be found in the mind that regards them. ‘I can’t find you both arguments and brains,’ said Dr. Johnson to a noodle who thought Milton trashy. One man sees an apple fall, and straightway thinks of the price of cider. Newton sees it, and it suggests gravitation. One man sees a table rise in the air, and cries: ‘It can’t be a spirit; ’t is too undignified for a spirit!’ Mountford sees it, and the immortality of the soul is thenceforth to him a fact as positive as any fact of science.” “Your story, dear Mr. Kenrick, your story!” urged Laura. “My story is ended. The ghost has come and vanished.” “Is that all?” whined Laura. “Are n’t we, then, to have a story?” “In mercy give us some music, Miss Brown,” said Onslow. “Play Yankee Doodle, with variations,” interposed Kenrick. “Not unless you’d have the windows smashed in,” pleaded Onslow; and, giving his arm, he waited on Clara to the piano. She dashed into a medley of brilliant airs from operas, uniting them by extemporized links of melody to break the abruptness of the transitions. The young men were both connoisseurs; and they interchanged looks of gratified astonishment. “And now for a song!” exclaimed Laura.