Mrs. Wylie, unable to win any response or recognition, stood silent and frightened, watching the entranced woman. Then her eyes fell upon the swiftly moving fingers. What was she doing? Surely she was forming letters—writing. Was it possible? She seemed to see her own name spelled from the ends of those fingers. Mrs. Wylie had seen such things before from professed mediums. Suddenly a thought came to her. She detached the little gold pencil from her watch guard and laid in with her shopping-tablet on the table before the woman. In a moment Mrs. Lucien seized the pencil and was writing rapidly, her eyes still fixed and unseeing. When she at last relinquished the tablet Mrs. Wylie took it up, and read in letters scrawling and unlike the chirography of her friend, the following: “My dear friend: “Why do you hesitate on the dark borders of prejudice and ignorance? Why not come into the full light of the truth? Our hands would gladly lead you if you would take them. There is much to believe that is truth; there is much to reject that is untruth. You accept much untruth. But you shall soon know all. “E. M. B.” What did this meaningless missive prove? That Mrs. Lucien was other than she seemed? Mrs. Wylie could think of no one having those initials. Ah, yes. She did have a friend, long ago, by the name of Emma Boyleson. She could not remember her middle name, or if she had one. It might have been “M.” But she was dead, died a long while ago, when only a little more than a child. And why, if it came from her,—Mrs. Wylie’s instincts denied the possibility,—why should she write such stuff as this? Simply to mystify her? Could she be mistaken in Mrs. Lucien? Could it be possible that she was one of those dreaded charlatans? But if so, how could she have known anything about Emma Boyleson? She had never mentioned her, so far as she could remember, even to Mr. Wylie. She would arouse Mrs. Lucien and sift this affair thoroughly. “Mrs. Lucien! Mrs. Lucien!” she said imperatively. She was gratified to see a change pass over the woman’s face. Mrs. Lucien started, shivered, pressed her hands to her forehead. “What is the matter, Mrs. Lucien,” again demanded Mrs. Wylie, bending over her. The dazed woman brushed her eyes and looked about her. “Have I been asleep?” she asked plaintively. “Yes, and writing me a letter in your dreams,” chirruped her visitor gaily. “Now you may arouse yourself and interpret it for me.” Mrs. Lucien shook her head, while the look of awe deepened in her face. “Ah, can it be possible,” she murmured, “that Dr. Lyman told me the truth, and that I am really a medium? How strange it seems, and yet he promised me it should be.” “You a medium?” Mrs. Wylie shrank from her hostess involuntarily.