nce," he said.

"Will you write, or will you call to-morrow?" asked Alta, in a
business-like manner.

Paul said he would call. Then he hesitated.

"Excuse me," he said, "but may I ask you if there is any one now in the
parlour where we were last night?"

"No one is there," replied the little girl.

"Could you let me just go in and see where she was?" asked Paul, humbly.
"I would not keep you a moment."

Alta, in her character of door-keeper to this house of mystery, was,
doubtless, in the habit of seeing queer people, bent on queer errands.
She merely asked him to step within the hall, saying that she would speak
to her mother. Presently she returned with the desired permission, and,
producing a key, unlocked the parlour door, and ushered Paul in.

It was late in the afternoon, and the heavy curtains and blinds left the
rooms almost dark. There was barely light enough to see that all was just
as it had been the night before. The sounds of the street penetrated the
closed apartments but faintly. With the step of one on holy ground, Paul
advanced to the spot where he had been seated when the vision appeared to
him the night before.

Aided by the darkness, the silence, and by the identity of the
surroundings, the memory of that vision returned to him as he stood there
with a vividness which, in the overwrought condition of his nerves, it
was impossible for him to distinguish from reality. Once more a radiant
figure glided noiselessly from the cabinet, which was darkly outlined in
the corner of the room, and stood before him. Once more her eyes burned
on his, until, forgetting all but her beauty, he put forth his arms to
clasp her. A startled exclamation from Alta banished the vision, and he
perceived that he was smiling upon the empty air.

He went away from the house ecstatically happy. He believed that he had
really seen her. He had no doubt that, aided by the mediumship of love,
she had actually appeared to him a second time in a form only a little
less material than the night before.

Of this experience he did not tell Miss Ludington. This interview, which
Ida had granted to him alone, he kept as a precious secret.

The next day, as he had promised, Paul called at Mrs. Legrand's and saw
Dr. Hull. That gentleman was unable to promise him anything definite
about a seance, on account of Mrs. Legrand's continued illness.

"Is she seriously sick?" asked Paul, with a new terror.

"I think not," said Dr. Hull;