"But why should it make her ill?" I argued, believing we were about to hold an ordinary _séance_. "Because he's a _live_ one, he hasn't passed over yet," replied Dewdrop, "and live ones always make my medium feel sick. But it's no use. I can't keep him out. He may as well come. But don't let him stay long." "Who is he, Dewdrop?" I demanded curiously. "_I_ don't know! Guess _you_ will! He's an old friend of yours, and his name is George." Whereupon Bessie Fitzgerald laid back on the sofa cushions, and Dewdrop ceased to speak. It was some time before there was any result. The medium tossed and turned, and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and pushed back her hair, and beat up the cushions and threw herself back upon them with a sigh, and went through all the pantomime of a man trying to court sleep in a hot climate. Presently she opened her eyes and glanced languidly around her. Her unmistakable actions and the name "George" (which was that of my friend, then resident in India) had naturally aroused my suspicions as to the identity of the influence, and when Bessie opened her eyes, I asked softly, "George, is that you?" At the sound of my voice the medium started violently and sprung into a sitting posture, and then, looking all round the room in a scared manner, she exclaimed, "Where am I? Who brought me here?" Then catching sight of me, she continued, "Mrs. Ross-Church!--Florence! Is this _your_ room? O! let me go! _Do_ let me go!" This was not complimentary, to say the least of it, from a friend whom I had not met for eleven years, but now that I had got him I had no intention of letting him go, until I was convinced of his identity. But the terror of the spirit at finding himself in a strange place seemed so real and uncontrollable that I had the greatest difficulty in persuading him to stay, even for a few minutes. He kept on reiterating, "Who brought me here? I did not wish to come. Do let me go back. I am so very cold" (shivering convulsively), "so very, _very_ cold." "Answer me a few questions," I said, "and then you shall go. Do you know who I am?" "Yes, yes, you are Florence." "And what is your name?" He gave it at full length. "And do you care for me still?" "Very much. But let me go." "In a minute. Why do you never write to me?" "There are reasons. I am not a free agent. It is better as it is." "I don't think so. I miss your letters very much. Shall I ever hear from you again?" "Yes!" "And see you?" "Yes; but not yet. Let me go now. I don't wish to stay. You are making me very unhappy."