“O Donald, give it to me quick! I can’t wait a minute,” she cried, espying the gleam of white sticking from the pocket of his coat. “But tell me first, before you read it, whether you have any faith in Professor Russell’s vision,” he said, teasing. “Yes, no; I don’t know. I can tell better after I have read Alice’s letter.” “Of course, but that will not demonstrate your faith. However, I’ll be good and let you have it.” And Donald placed the coveted missive in her hand. With the remembrance of the vision before her, Lissa’s fingers trembled as she tore open the envelope. The letter would confirm or refute the truth of the Professor’s clairvoyance. And although she would not admit for a moment even to herself that she believed in any _spirit_ agency, she understood so little of clairvoyancy as to believe it connected with supernatural phenomena. As she read the letter, her expressive eyes dilated with wonder and awe. “What is it?” asked Nathan, noticing her agitation. She placed the written pages in his hand. “Read that, Nathan, and tell me what to think, what to believe. Read it aloud that all may hear and judge.” Nathan took the letter and read as follows: “‘Cramer Cabin, Prairieland, “‘August 28, 18—. “‘My Darling Little Sister: “‘Don’t you wish you were here with me this summer evening? Outside, the white stillness of the great prairie woos one to meditation and letter writing. Now you will expect something poetical and fine, will you not? Well, the inspiration is here, but alas, I am one of those “Who cannot sing, but die with all their music in them.” My muse deserted me in my infancy. Besides I have been having unexpected duties. “‘Mark is at home laid up with a couple of wounds, not serious ones, I am happy to say, but such as to give me an opportunity to coddle and pet him for a time. I am not sure I am _sorry_ he received them, but don’t whisper this to him. “‘How did he get them, did you ask? Well, he was away on a hunting expedition with a band of his Pawnees, when they were surprised by some Sioux. Mark got a flesh wound in his shoulder from a tomahawk blow, and a bullet grazed him in the left side. Close call, wasn’t it? The skirmish was on the bank of the Niobrara, where Mark’s party had fled for shelter, and he managed to get under water until a clump of hazel-brush enabled him to climb out and hide. He was too exhausted from the loss of blood to fight any longer. However, his men drove off the Sioux and found him and brought him home. Mark says I have represented him in a cowardly position. I hope not. He was in a dead faint when the men found him. Anyway, I don’t see any bravery in standing up to have your scalp taken off by a savage, do you? But men are so very sensitive upon those points.