Once more he paused, and we had somehow a feeling that he was drifting away from us. When he spoke again there was in his voice the quality of one who, listening to faint far-off words, tries to repeat them. “Somewhere,” he said, “from out of the land we are about to enter—there is seeking us now such a message. It comes far through the spaces—the strings of my thought are not perfectly adjusted to its tuning. Here, in the close union of our daily round the difficulty is not. We have become in mental adjustment—our minds have formed in a chord to which it is not strange that I, who have given my life to such research, should have found the key—should have become able to know without words, as in another way I have been able to hear without wires.” He roused, as it were, and once more came back to us—to me, in fact. “You,” he continued, “are at this instant wondering if what I said of the answering soul be true. It is, and you shall presently know it. You,” turning to Gale, “are thinking of the hour. You wished to consult your watch and hesitated out of consideration for me. You have no need. The Captain who sits behind you has just done so, and it lacks still a half-hour of midday.” He turned to Zar, who thus far had been a silent observer of the ceremonies. “You,” he said, “are remembering a little sunny cabin in the North, where thirty years ago you lived with your little ones about you. One of them is grown, now; the others are dead.” Zar had comprehended little or nothing of what had gone before of Ferratoni’s words. She had been in a reverie, but at this point she sprang to her feet excitedly. “Good Lawd!” she cried, “what kin’ o’ man _is_ dat? Stan’ here an’ tell me jes’ puzzacly what I thinkin’ dat berry minute! I gwine out o’ here! I not gwine stay in no sech place!” She set out hastily for the door. Her outbreak had brought the needed relaxation, and we all laughed. “Come back,” called Gale. “You haven’t made your speech yet. We want to hear what you have to say.” The old woman turned suddenly.