She rose to enter the bedroom, and he followed as far as the threshold. It was very dark in there, and for a moment he could see nothing, could hear nothing. Then a faint whisper made itself distinctly audible just above his head. "_Victor, my boy_," it said. He did not reply for a moment, and Mrs. Joyce eagerly called, "Did you hear that whisper, Victor?" "Yes, I heard it," he replied. "It was Lucy. Was it you, Lucy?" asked Mrs. Joyce. "_Yes_," came the answer. "Are you still out of the body, Lucy?" "_Yes._" "What shall we do?" "_Wait._" "Is there anything you want to say to Victor?" "_No, not now. Father will speak._" Silence again fell, and in this pause Mrs. Joyce took the chair which stood close beside the bed and motioned Victor to another near the foot. He sat with thrilling nerves, moved, trembling in spite of himself. The room was now quite dark, save for a faint patch of light on the ceiling and another on the carpet. His mother's body could not be distinguished from the covering of the bed. As they waited, a singular, cold, and aromatic breeze began to blow over the bed from the dark corner, and then a small, brilliant, bluish flame arose near the sleeper's head, and, floating upward to the ceiling, vanished silently. It was like the flame of a candle twisted and leaping in a breeze. "The spirit light!" exclaimed Mrs. Joyce, ecstatically. "Wasn't it beautiful? And see, there is a hand holding it!" she whispered, as another flame arose. "Can't you see it?" "I see the light, but no hand," he replied. "I can see more. I see the dim form of an old man outlined on the wall. It must be your grandsire, Nelson Blodgett. Am I right?" she asked, apparently of the dark. Victor could now perceive a thin, bluish, wavering shape, like a cloud of cigar smoke, and from this a whisper seemed to come, strong and clear. "_Yes, I have come to speak to my grandson._" "Don't you see him now?" asked Mrs. Joyce. "I see nothing," he repeated; and as he spoke the misty shape vanished. "But you heard the whisper, did you not?" Mrs. Joyce persisted. He did not reply to her, but rose and bent above his mother. "Mother, did you speak?" he asked. Mrs. Joyce excitedly restrained him. "Sit down! You must not touch her now." "Why not?" "Because it is very dangerous while the spirits are using her organism." "I don't know what you mean!" he retorted, angrily. "I know that that voice sounded exactly like my mother's voice, and I want to know--" "_Silence, foolish boy!_" was sternly breathed into his ear.