“I can see no possible harm in it,” returned Mrs. Lucien, with an air of conviction. “Even Christ materialized after his crucifixion.” “But He didn’t have a cabinet and a medium to assist Him,” replied Mrs. Wylie, with some asperity. “There is really so much that is despicable and demoralizing connected with the history of this belief that I confess I have little patience with the followers of it.” “My dear, wrong has been done in all sects and societies. Any new belief is apt to draw to itself many who are no honor to it.” “But think of all this buffoonery of materialization in a cabinet, and table-rappings, and tying with cords, and so forth. I cannot believe in it. Hermann can surpass it by his magic.” “Did not Moses and Elijah materialize?” “Not in a cabinet. Besides, the days of miracles are passed.” “I cannot think so,” said Mrs. Lucien, clasping her hands and looking upward with a rapturous glance. “Well,” said Mrs. Wylie, rising, “I am sorry you are so much interested in the subject. I have never seen anything but sorrow come of it.” “Is there not sorrow everywhere, Mrs. Wylie? This day is, I think, symbolical of life, or of many lives.” She threw open a window, and the two stepped out upon a small balcony above the street. A heavy calm was over and about all nature. The whistle of the oncoming train, the rattle of the car over the pavement was louder and more discordant than on brighter, sunnier days. Even the voices of the people on the street grew distinct and harsh, as the air, damp with the approaching storm, bore their words with clearness to the twain above them. Little gusts of wind caught up the dust from the trampled pavement, and whisked it over, in tyrannous derision, and a dusky, yellow hue shone upon the faces of humanity. The swinging signs before the shop creaked and groaned ominously, and the flag upon the tall pole in the park shook out its folds, then wound them about the halyards and hung limp and spiritless. The faint muttering of a cloud skirting the horizon was at times heard, when the sound of busy humanity was for a moment hushed. Mrs. Lucien stood, leaning over the railing of the veranda, her pale cheek resting in the soft upturned palm of her hand, and her eyes fixed on the moving panorama before her. “I feel as though listening to the voice of God coming from yonder storm-cloud,” she said. “How responsive is all nature to the ominous warning there. Even the trees seem to be holding their breaths and waiting for the presence to pass by. Notice how different is the quiver of the leaflets now from their usual merry, rollicking dance in the wind and sunshine at other times.” “I suppose the atmosphere is more dense and heavy,” said Mrs. Wylie, determined not to be betrayed into sentimentality.