"Undoubtedly. It will be a fatal day for the world when faith in miracles is dead. Do not do my uncle an injustice, Mr. Emery; I never heard him speak as he spoke this afternoon when we were discussing this subject, and it almost seemed to me as if he were desirous of arguing against himself. Do you require absolute visible proof before you believe?" "Not always," I replied, with my eyes on the spectral cat. "I am forced to believe in some things which are not visible to other eyes than mine." "I do not quite understand you," said Ronald thoughtfully. "It is, at the best, but a half-hearted admission, and, regarding you in the light of a friend, as I do Uncle Bob, I would like to break down the barrier." "Try," I said anxiously. He was silent for a moment or two, considering. "My uncle, this afternoon, in the attempt to support his argument, brought forward some instances of spectral illusions such as that of a man who was in the habit of seeing in his drawing room a band of figures, dressed in green, who entertained him with singular dances; and he instanced other illusions of a like nature. These are waking fancies, produced either by a disordered mind or a disordered body; they are of the same order as dreams. At dead of night imperial Reason sleeps, And Fancy, with her train, her revel keeps. So by day, when the mind is disturbed by such fancies, does imperial reason sleep. For my own part I make no attempt to dispute the facts of these cases. They have been brought forward by physicians in proof of certain functional and scientific facts, and by wise treatment suffering mortals have been won from madness. In this respect they have served a good purpose; but materialists, and persons who now fashionably call themselves agnostics, seize upon these illustrations in proof that mortal life is of no more value, and means no more, than the life of a flower or the growth of a stone, and that when we die we are blotted out spiritually and materially forever. In their eyes we are so many pounds of flesh and blood; there is nothing divine, nothing spiritual in us; we are surrounded by no mystery. 'Miracles!' they cry. 'Stories for children; fables to tickle, amuse, and delude!' What we see and feel is, what we do not see and feel is not and cannot be. If this view were universal what would become of religion? The high priests of God, under whichever banner they preach, insist upon our accepting miracles, and they are right in thus insisting. You laugh at faith and destroy it, and in its destruction you destroy comfort and consolation; you destroy salvation. God is a miracle. Because we do not see him are we not to believe in him? Are we not to believe in the resurrection? Then farewell to the sublime solace that lies in the immortality of the soul. There is a road to Calvary called the Via Dolorosa, and there pilgrims kneel and see a miracle in every stone; there, hearts that are crushed with sorrow tarry, and go away