She made a feeble rally under a woful impression of fright and misery impending, but in vain; and, with the carelessness of a creature who is chloroformed, she let her soul drift away. When she opened her eyes, Lucy was rubbing her hands, while the clairvoyant watched the two women motionless and smiling. The fear still on her prompted her first words, “Let me go home now!” “Not now,” begged the conjurer; “you must go into a trance again. I want you to see something that will be very interesting to you. Please, Miss Courtlandt.” He spoke in the gentlest of tones, but there was a repressed assurance about his manner that was infuriating to Lucy. “Miss Abbie’s going home,” she cried, angrily; “we ain’t going to have any more of this nonsense. Come, Miss Abbie.” She touched her on her arm, but trembling Abbie fixed her eyes on the conjurer, and he, in that gentle tone, answered: “Certainly, if she wishes; but she _wants_ to stay. You want to stay, Miss Courtlandt, don’t you?” “Yes, I want to stay,” said Abbie; and her heart was cold within her, for the words seemed to say themselves, even while she struggled frantically against the utterance of them. [Illustration: “‘SHE MUST LOOK AT IT’”] “Do you mean it, Miss Abbie?” the girl repeated, sorely puzzled. “Certainly, just once more,” said Miss Abbie. And she sat down again in her chair. What she saw she never remembered. Lucy said it was all nonsense she talked, and, anyhow, she whispered so low that nobody could catch more than a word, except that she seemed to be promising something over and over again. In a little while the conjurer whispered to her, and with a few passes of his hand consciousness returned. She rose, white and shaken, but quite herself again. He bade the two good-bye, and bowed them out with much suavity of manner. Abbie returned not a single word. As they drove home, the maid spoke, “Miss Abbie, Miss Abbie—you won’t go there again, will you?” “Never,” cried Abbie—“_never_!” But the next morning, after a sleepless night, there returned the same horrible, dragging longing to see him; and with the longing came the same fear that had suffocated her will the day before—a fear like the fear of dreams, formless, reasonless, more dreadful than death. Impelled by this frightful force that did not seem to have anything to do with her, herself, she left the house and boarded a street-car. She felt as if a demon were riding her soul, spurring it wherever he willed. She went to a little park outside the city, frequented by Germans and almost deserted of a week-day. And on her way she remembered that this was what she had promised him to do.