"I don't mean it in that crude sense," she replied, quite mistress of herself. She had taken up and was holding between her hands a small hinged slate. "What's that for?" asked Victor. "To vitalize the surface. I am able to give it vitality by my touch." She laid the slate upon the table and placed her spread hand upon it. "Put your hand upon mine, Victor." He did as she bade him, rebelling at the childish folly of it all. "What do you expect to do?" he asked. Almost immediately the slate seemed seized by a powerful hand. It began to slide back and forth across the table violently, twisting and clattering. The youth put forth his own great strength and stopped it, but a crunching sound announced that the slate was broken. His mother said, sharply, "You mustn't do that, Victor." She took up the slate and showed one corner crushed and crumbled. "You can't hold it--you mustn't try--it angers them." He marveled at the strength which had resisted him, but argued that his mother from long practice had become very muscular. Hysterical people often displayed astounding power. After preparing a new slate she put it on the table as before, saying to the air, "Please don't be rough, father--Victor can't prevent his skepticism." Three loud raps answered, and she smiled. He says, "All right. He understands." "Seems to me he's mighty touchy for one on the heavenly plane," Victor retorted, maliciously. "Seems to me an all-seeing spirit ought to get my point of view." A vigorous tapping on the table responded to this speech. "What's that?" asked Victor. "That is your father saying yes, he _does_ get your point of view." Victor had a feeling that his mother was receding from him as he faced her across the table. She became the professional medium in her manner and tone. He, too, changed. He hardened, assuming the attitude of the scientific observer--hostile and derisive. His keen hazel-gray eyes grew penetrating and his lips curled in scorn. His tone hurt her, but she persisted in her sitting, and at last the slate began to tremble throughout all its parts, and a grating sound like slow writing with a pencil went on beneath it. Victor could plainly follow the dotting of the i's and the crossing of the t's, till at the end a tapping indicated that it was finished. "You may take the slate, Victor," said Mrs. Ollnee. He took it from the table and opened it. On one side, in bold script--a bit old-fashioned--stood these words: "_Stay where you are. Let the boy adventure into the city. Await results. I will be near. FATHER._" Victor, astounded, mystified, confronted his mother with wide eyes. "Now, what does that mean?" "It means that I am to keep this house just as it is and you are to seek work in the city. Is that right, Paul?" Three taps made answer.