He moistened his dry lips and stole another glance at this very commonplace Florida river. Sky and water were blank and still, and the ghostly trees stood tall, reflected palely in the translucent tide. “You merely made me visualise what you were thinking about,” he concluded in a voice which still remained unsteady. “Did you _hear_ nothing?” He was silent, remembering the bells and the enormous murmur of a living multitude. “And—there were the birds, too.” She added, with an uncertain smile: “I do not mean to worry you.... And you did ask me to amuse you.” “I don’t know how you did it,” he said harshly. “And the details—those thousands and thousands of people on the bridge!... And there was one, quite near this end of the bridge, who looked back.... A young girl who turned and laughed at us—” “That was Yulun.” “Who?” “Yulun. I taught her English.” “A temple girl?” “Yes. From Black China.” “How could you make _me_ see _her_!” he demanded. “Why do you ask such things? I do not know how to tell you how I do it.” “It’s a dangerous, uncanny knowledge!” he blurted out; and suddenly checked himself, for the girl’s face went white. “I don’t mean uncanny,” he hastened to add. “Because it seems to me that what you did by juggling with invisible currents to which, when attuned, our five senses respond, is on the same lines as the wireless telegraph and telephone.” She said nothing, but her colour slowly returned. “You mustn’t be so sensitive,” he added. “I’ve no doubt that it’s all quite normal—quite explicable on a perfectly scientific basis. Probably it’s no more mysterious than a man in an airplane over midocean conversing with people ashore on two continents.” For the remainder of the day and evening Tressa seemed subdued—not restless, not nervous, but so quiet that, sometimes, glancing at her askance, Cleves involuntarily was reminded of some lithe young creature of the wilds, intensely alert and still, immersed in fixed and dangerous meditation. About five in the afternoon they took their golf sticks, went down to the river, and embarked in the canoe. The water was glassy and still. There was not a ripple ahead, save when a sleeping gull awoke and leisurely steered out of their way. Tressa’s arms and throat were bare and she wore no hat. She sat forward, wielding the bow paddle and singing to herself in a low voice. “You feel all right, don’t you?” he asked. “Oh, I am so well, physically, now! It’s really wonderful, Victor—like being a child again,” she replied happily. “You’re not much more,” he muttered. She heard him: “Not very much more—in years,” she said.... “Does Scripture tell us how old Our Lord was when He descended into Hell?” “I don’t know,” he replied, startled. After a little while Tressa tranquilly resumed her paddling and singing: “_—And eight tall towers_ _Guard the route_ _Of human life,_ _Where at all hours_ _Death looks out,_ _Holding a knife_ _Rolled in a shroud._