As they sang, Mrs. Harris withdrew her hands from the table and sat rigidly erect, yet with a peaceful look upon her face. "She does it well," I thought. "I didn't think it in the quiet little lady." At length one hand lifted and dropped limply upon the table. "It wants to write," said I. "Where is the pad? I have a pencil." As I put a pencil under the hand, it was seized in a very singular way, and almost instantly Mrs. Cameron gasped, "That's very strange!" "Hush!" said I. "Wait!" Holding the pencil clumsily as a crippled person might do, the hand crept over the paper, and at last, after writing several lines, stopped and lay laxly open. I passed the pad to Brierly. "Read it aloud," I said. He took it to the light and read: "Sara, be not sceptical. Believe and you will be happier. Life is only the minutest segment of the great circle. MARTIN." "My father!" exclaimed Mrs. Cameron. "Let me see the writing." Brierly handed the pad to her. She stared upon it in awe and wonder. "It is his exact signature--and Dolly held the pen just as he did--he was paralyzed toward the last--and could only write by holding his pen that way." "Look! it's moving again," I exclaimed. The hand caught up the pencil, and, holding it between the thumb and forefinger in a peculiar way, began moving it in the air. Brierly, who sat opposite, translated these movements. "She is drawing, free-hand, in the air. She is sketching the outline of a boat. See how she measures and plumbs her lines! Are you addressing me?" he asked of Mrs. Harris. The sleeper nodded. "Can't you write?" I asked. "Can't you speak?" A low gurgle in the throat was the only answer at the moment, but after a few trials a husky whisper began to be heard. "I will try," she said, and suddenly began to chuckle, rolling upon one hip and throwing one foot over the other like a man taking an easy attitude. She now held the pencil as if it were a cigarette, laughing again with such generous tone that the other women recoiled. Then she spoke, huskily. "You know--San Remo--Sands," came brokenly from her lips. "Sands?" queried the painter; "who is Sands?" "Sands--San Remo--boats." The painter was puzzled. "I don't remember any Sands at San Remo. It must be some student I knew in Paris. Is that what you mean?" Mrs. Harris violently nodded. As abruptly as it came, this action left her, and then slowly, imperceptibly, her expression changed, a look of ineffable maternal sweetness came into her face; she seemed to cradle a tiny babe upon her arm. At last she sighed, "Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it!" For a minute we sat in silence, so compelling were her gestures and her tone. At last I asked, "Has any one here lost a little child?" Mrs. Cameron spoke, hesitatingly, "Yes--I lost a little baby--years ago." "She is addressing you--perhaps."