As he spoke he led us into an unfurnished bedroom, I say bedroom, because it was provided with the dressing closet fitted with pegs, usual to all bedrooms in America. This closet the doctor used as his cabinet. The door was left open, and there was no curtain hung before it. The darkness he sat in rendered that unnecessary. The bedroom was darkened by two frames, covered with black American cloth, which fitted into the windows. The doctor, having locked the bedroom door, delivered the key to me. He then requested us to go and sit for a few minutes in the cabinet to throw our influence about it. As we did so we naturally examined it. It was only a large cupboard. It had no window and no door, except that which led into the room, and no furniture except a cane-bottomed chair. When we returned to the _séance_ room, the doctor saw us comfortably established on two armchairs before he put up the black frames to exclude the light. The room was then pitch dark, and the doctor had to grope his way to his cabinet. Mrs. Hooker and I sat for some minutes in silent expectation. Then we heard the voice of a negress, singing "darkey" songs, and my friend told me it was that of "Rosa," the doctor's control. Presently "Rosa" was heard to be expostulating with, or encouraging some one, and faint lights, like sparks from a fire, could be seen flitting about the open door of the cabinet. Then the lights seemed to congregate together, and cluster about a tall form, draped in some misty material, standing just outside the cabinet. "Can't you tell us who you are?" asked Mrs. Hooker. "You must tell your name, you know," interposed "Rosa," whereupon a low voice said, "I am Janet E. Powles." Now this was an extraordinary coincidence. I had seen Mrs. Powles, the mother of my friend "John Powles," only once--when she travelled from Liverpool to London to meet me on my return from India, and hear all the particulars of her son's death. But she had continued to correspond with me, and show me kindness till the day of her own death, and as she had a daughter of the same name, she always signed herself "Janet _E._ Powles." Even had I expected to see the old lady, and published the fact in the Boston papers, that initial _E_ would have settled the question of her identity in my mind.