Something soft dropped on Enid’s lap. She put her hand down and felt it. “It’s a flower--a chrysanthemum. Thank you, Wee One!” “An apport?” asked Mailey. “No, no, Mr. Mailey,” said Bolsover. “They were in the vase on the harmonium. Speak to her, Miss Challenger. Keep the vibrations going.” “Who are you, Wee One?” asked Enid, looking up at the moving spot above her. “I am little black girl. Eight-year-old little black girl.” “Oh, come, dear,” said mother in her rich, coaxing voice. “You were eight when you came to us first, and that was years ago.” “Years ago to you. All one time to me. I to do my job as eight-year child. When job done then Wee One become Big One all in one day. No time here, same as you have. I always eight year old.” “In the ordinary way they grow up exactly as we do here,” said Mailey. “But if they have a special bit of work for which a child is needed, then as a child they remain. It’s a sort of arrested development.” “That’s me. ‘Rested envelopment,’” said the voice proudly. “I learn good English when big man here.” They all laughed. It was the most genial, free-and-easy association possible. Malone heard Enid’s voice whispering in his ear. “Pinch me from time to time, Edward--just to make me sure that I am not in a dream.” “I have to pinch myself, too.” “What about your song, Wee One?” asked Bolsover. “Oh, yes, indeeda! Wee One sing to you.” She began some simple song, but faded away in a squeak, while the trumpet clattered on to the table. “Ah, power run down!” said Mailey. “I think a little more music will set us right. ‘Lead Kindly Light,’ Smiley.” They sang the beautiful hymn together. As the verse closed an amazing thing happened--amazing, at least, to the novices, though it called for no remark from the circle. The trumpet still shone upon the table, but two voices, those apparently of a man and a woman broke out in the air above them and joined very tunefully in the singing. The hymn died away and all was silence and tense expectancy once more. It was broken by a deep male voice from the darkness. It was an educated English voice, well modulated, a voice which spoke in a fashion to which the good Bolsover could never attain. “Good evening, friends. The power seems good to-night.” “Good evening, Luke. Good evening!” cried everyone. “It is our teaching guide,” Bolsover explained. “He is a high spirit from the sixth sphere who gives us instruction.” “I may seem high to you,” said the voice. “But what am I to those who in turn instruct me! It is not _my_ wisdom. Give me no credit. I do but pass it on.” “Always like that,” said Bolsover. “No swank. It’s a sign of his height.” “I see you have two enquirers present. Good evening, young lady! You know nothing of your own powers or destiny. You will find them out. Good evening, sir, you are on the threshold of great knowledge. Is there any subject upon which you would wish me to say a few words? I see that you are making notes.”