On Christmas Eve I happened to be in Boston, and disengaged, and as I found it was a custom of the American Spiritualists to hold meetings on that anniversary for the purpose of seeing their spirit friends, I engaged a seat for the occasion. I arrived some time before the _séance_ commenced, and next to me was seated a gentleman, rather roughly dressed, who was eyeing everything about him with the greatest attention. Presently he turned to me and said, rather sheepishly, "Do you believe in this sort of thing?" "I do," I replied, "and I have believed in it for the last fifteen years." "Have you ever seen anybody whom you recognized?" he continued. "Plenty," I said. Then he edged a little nearer to me, and lowered his voice. "Do you know," he commenced, "that I have ridden on horseback forty miles through the snow to-day to be present at this meeting, because my old mother sent me a message that she would meet me here! I don't believe in it, you know. I've never been at a _séance_ before, and I feel as if I was making a great fool of myself now, but I couldn't neglect my poor old mother's message, whatever came of it." "Of course not," I answered, "and I hope your trouble will be rewarded." I had not much faith in my own words, though, because I had seen people disappointed again and again over their first _séance_, from either the spirits of their friends being too weak to materialize, or from too many trying to draw power at once, and so neutralizing the effect on all. My bridegroom friend was all ready on that occasion with his white flowers in his hand and I ventured to address him and tell him how very beautiful I considered his wife's fidelity and his own. He seemed pleased at my notice, and began to talk quite freely about her. He told me she had returned to him before her body was buried, and had been with him ever since. "She is so really and truly _my wife_," he said, "as I received her at the altar, that I could no more marry again than I could if she were living in my house." When the _séance_ commenced she appeared first as usual, and her husband brought her up to my side. "This is Miss Florence Marryat, dear," he said (for by this time I had laid aside my _incognita_ with the Berrys). "You know her name, don't you?" "O! yes," she answered, as she gave me her hand, "I know you quite well. I used to read your books." Her face was covered with her bridal veil, and her husband turned it back that I might see her. She was a very pretty girl of perhaps twenty--quite a gipsy, with large dark eyes and dark curling hair, and a brown complexion. "She has not altered one bit since the day we were married," said her husband, looking fondly at her, "whilst I have grown into an old man." She put up her hand and stroked his cheek. "We shall be young together some day," she said. Then he asked her if she was not going to kiss me, and she held up her face to mine like a child, and he dropped the veil over her again and led her away.