We have nothing more from the spirit of the girl (I speak now without entering into any question of the authenticity of these communications, leaving my reader to dispose of that enigma, as may best suit his temper and convenience), but the father makes his appearance on the scene and endorses his daughter’s testimony; but singularly neither witness offers to give the name of the designated soldier. The spiritualistic theory is that they could not do so, because he was a stranger to both of them, and consequently while they could see his face and clothes, they could not tell his name. The case is similar to our own daily experience in our transient meeting with people on the street,—a passing and silent interview, in which nothing is discovered save the recognition of a person and no more. The revelation of the father is to the effect that he knows where the man is, and will follow him to the end. One part of his statement I suppress, because it comes directly within the province of the law officers, and might direct suspicion upon a possibly innocent man. Three years ago, it is asserted by those who believe in this extraordinary doctrine of the power of the dead to express themselves through the living, this man, Stephen Joyce, declared that by the fifth of the month of July, eighteen hundred and sixty-five, the murderer would be in the hands of justice; and how many months have come and gone since that spirit entered the mystic witness-box, and foretold such sequence to the tragedy, and yet without fulfilment? I am sorry that he was no true prophet,—no wiser in a ghostly form than in the fleshly substance. He is not half so good a ghost as Hamlet’s father was. The Dane went straight to the point, and told the truth and nothing but the truth, while here we have the spirit of the girl upon the stand, and she rambles in her talk without the aid of the great legal screw of cross-questioning, designating nothing that is tangible, indeed giving false clues to the murderer, and screaming, “Mother! Mother!” as if she would pour into the listener’s ear some faint echo of those dread cries that rang amid the gloomy woods when the soul of her was stabbed out of her.