r father. He is
angry now, as was his way in the earth-life; but he will come to see
the wisdom of my counsel, for this, too, was his way in the earth-life.
Love, my child, and love well.--Martha."

"Let me see it," Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring the
handwriting with her eyes. She was thrilling with unexpressed love for
the mother she had never seen, and this written speech from the grave
seemed to give more tangibility to her having ever existed, than did the
vision of her.

"This IS remarkable," Mrs. Grantly was reiterating. "There was never
anything like it. Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother here
with us tonight."

Lute shivered. The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural self
again, vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen. And it
was offensive to her mind that, real or illusion, the presence or the
memorized existences of her father and mother should be touched by these
two persons who were practically strangers--Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy and
morbid, and Mr. Barton, stolid and stupid with a grossness both of
the flesh and the spirit. And it further seemed a trespass that these
strangers should thus enter into the intimacy between her and Chris.

She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situation
flashed upon her, luminous and clear. She hurriedly folded the sheet of
paper and thrust it into her bosom.

"Don't say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly,
please, and Mr. Barton. Nor to Aunt Mildred. It would only cause them
irritation and needless anxiety."

In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knew
that the strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle would
be added to, unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message of
Planchette.

"And please don't let us have any more Planchette," Lute continued
hastily. "Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred."

"'Nonsense,' my dear child?" Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protesting
when Uncle Robert strode into the circle.

"Hello!" he demanded. "What's being done?"

"Too late," Lute answered lightly. "No more stock quotations for you.
Planchette is adjourned, and we're just winding up the discussion of the
theory of it. Do you know how late it is?"

* * *

"Well, what did you do last night after we left?"

"Oh, took a stroll," Chris answered.

Lute's eyes were quizzical as she asked with a tentativeness that was
palpa