“Why—I half suspect she has run away from her husband,” admitted Mrs. Wylie reluctantly, hastening to add, “I am quite sure she had a good reason and that no blame can attach to her, whatever the cause.” Mr. Wylie shook his head. “Do not let your enthusiasm blind your eyes, Elinor. I give you credit for being pretty keen-sighted usually, but a woman with such a history may not be a desirable associate for my wife.” “Horace!” the blue eyes were raised reproachfully to his face. “Even if my suspicions are correct,—and they are only suspicions,—we may suppose a case where she might be entirely blameless, and oh, so much more to be pitied, because of these very circumstances which may cast a shadow over her fair name! Surely she needs my friendship so much the more.” “You precious little philanthrope!” said her husband fondly. “It is difficult to answer you, but suppose there are plenty of associates for Mrs. Horace Wylie whose characters are above suspicion and need no vindication. And yet,” he continued gravely, “the woman’s face is vindication for her. Do as you think best. Shall we invite her to attend the lecture with us to-morrow night?” “Yes, if you will. She so seldom goes anywhere, and I am sure she needs recreation. I could wish it was something besides Dr. Lyman’s lectures, however. I am always glad to get home from one of them, and I dream of ghosts and goblins when I sleep afterwards.” There was a compassionate look on Mr. Wylie’s face as he turned toward his wife. “I am surprised, Nell, that you cannot appreciate what I enjoy so much. Surely, Dr. Lyman is a very interesting speaker.” “A good talker, yes, but I do not like his subject,” and the little lady drew herself farther upon the sofa and pursed up her lips defiantly. “And yet the subject is one that may materially affect us?” “I do not believe it can _materially_ affect us; if it does spiritually, why, it may. We shall find out after we leave this world, probably, all about it. What is the use of believing that the spirits of our friends can communicate with us. I don’t want them to. It’s horrid, the whole of it.” “I do not see anything particularly horrid about it. If I should die and live again in the spiritland and should come back and reveal myself to your material sight and talk with you as I do now, would you consider it particularly horrid? That is,” he continued with his pleasant drawl, “supposing I come in immaculate broadcloth, shining boots, etc., and present you with a check for a few thousands to squander in bon-bons.” “Oh, do stop talking so dreadfully! I will not think about it.” “Then you will not want me to come back?” he queried provokingly. “Especially if you are wedded to your second, and well provided for?” “Yes—no—I do not know. I think I should be dreadfully afraid of you if you did.” “Aren’t you a little afraid of me now? Come, confess. Aren’t you?” Mrs. Wylie made a grimace. “No, I hope not, but I am afraid of Dr. Lyman.”