It is a confused statement of Johnny’s having spoken of the sheep (Mr. Motley’s sheep down in the valley grazing at the time, watched by a vagrant boy, afterward examined by the authorities, and found to be no wiser than the flock he watched). She says she does not remember exactly—speaks of a knife which she tried to get hold of—of his cutting himself with it—of his throwing it into the wood. (If he did, he must have gone back for it and rescued it, for no such knife was found after a vigilant search over the whole locality.) She exclaims, “He murdered me!”—that he was scratched on the face and neck, and bears the marks “now,”—at the time of her manifestation at the spiritual sitting. At this point the paper is filled with wild and alarming cries to her mother. The idea presents itself again of a mimic reacting a scene in which the soul is driven to the very verge of madness by that dread fiend called Terror. The voice seems to pierce the air in its shrill proclamation of intense and terrible agony, and anon it subsides into stifled sobs and ejaculations of how much she suffered while the black deed was done,—how “sick” she was. After that outburst of mad appeal and piteous mourning she resumes her narrative, and describes her murderer. He wore blue clothes, and looked like a soldier; but not a soldier just from the wars. (A soldier loafing after his laurels had withered in bar-room atmosphere, I suppose.) She fixes his nationality distinctly,—an Irishman. It was one o’clock, she says; but the writing here is blurred and crossed, and very difficult, if not quite impossible, to make out and determine whether it is one or two o’clock. Her brother, she says, ran for help, and the man ran after him and killed him and came back to her. This statement is signed “Isabella Joyce.” The other portions of the page of foolscap, on which her hand appears, is covered with a lively display of all sorts of penmanship,—the idle signatures of a small party of the other world’s inhabitants, who, it would seem, were in Isabella’s company. Again she resumes control over the writing medium’s hand, and says,— “Johnny was dead, and the man went off after I died. He went down the other way to Boston. He will be found.”