“Still you will not know I’m speaking, Though your blindness gives me pain; Must I be forever seeking For your notice, all in vain? See, I softly press your pillow, Softly touch your dewy lips, Brush your bosom’s heaving billow, Clasp your dainty finger tips. “Once when midnight shadows thickened, In your dreams I saw _you_ start, While your breath came warm and quickened By the fluttering of your heart. Then no more I need to try you, For you felt my heart was thine, Felt my hovering presence nigh you— Then it was your soul met mine.” When Auntie had finished reading this production, which all present declared truly Byronic, Professor Russell bade them each write upon a piece of paper the name of some departed friend and the spirits would respond to their questions through his “control.” The slips were written, folded as directed, and thrown into a hat, while the Professor again went into a trance state, and taking one of the slips in his fingers—his eyes having been previously bandaged—he awaited communication from the other world. “I can see a name, ‘Henry Arthur,’” he read slowly. “He is present. I see him distinctly. He is of medium height and wears a uniform.” “It is my brother,” said Mrs. Jenkinson. “He was in Her Majesty’s service in England. Are ye well, Henry, and happy?” she asked. “I am well, and much happier than I ever was upon earth,” came from the Professor’s lips in a thin, nasal tone. “You have the right principle, Helen. No one can be sick. There is no sickness, if we only deny the belief in such a thing. Stick to your faith and you are all right.” The Professor selected a second paper. “I see the name Maria,” he said. “Maria, are you there? Will you answer if a friend wishes to speak with you?” “Has she—has she blonde hair?” asked Donald, with some hesitation. “Yes, and blue eyes,” answered Russell. “She is very delicate and pale, and is holding out her hands to you.” “Ah, yes; she wants me to take her, probably. Sorry I can’t. Ask her if she is all right and likes the other world as well as this.” The answer came in a husky falsetto: “Yes, better.” “Do you forgive me for all my ill conduct toward you?” “Yes, I have nothing to regret. I remember only the delight of our acquaintance and your many kindnesses.” “You are sure you forgive me for the last blow I dealt you?” “Yes, I know it was not your heart that spoke, in that, but the force of circumstances.” “You forgive all my neglect and—cruelty?” “O yes, if there was anything to forgive.” “Are you surrounded by friends?” “Yes, there are many we both have known.” “Ah, Tommy and Jack, and the rest, I suppose. Are you where I may see you if at any time I should pass in my checks?” “O yes; certainly.”