much of
sweetness and tolerance in her face, so much of dignity and power in
every movement that I was moved to applaud the actress. As we all sat
thus, deeply impressed by her towering attitude, Mrs. Cameron whispered:
"Why, it is Bishop Blank! That is exactly the way he held his hand--his
robe!"

"Is it the bishop?" I asked.

The psychic bowed and in solemn answer spoke. "Tell James all will yet
be well," she said, and, making the sign of blessing once more, sank
back into her chair.

Meanwhile the irreverent ribalds in the far end of the room were
disturbing the solemnity of all this communion with the shades, and at
my suggestion we went up-stairs to Mrs. Cameron's own sitting-room,
where we could be quiet. Seizing a moment when Mrs. Harris was free from
the "influence," I woke her and told her what we were about to do. She
followed Mrs. Cameron readily, although she seemed a little dazed, and
five of us continued the sitting, with Mrs. Quigg and Cameron looking on
with perfectly evident doubt of our psychic's sincerity. Harris was
rigidly excluded.

In the quiet of this room Mrs. Harris passed almost immediately into
trance--or what seemed like a trance--and ran swiftly over all her
former impersonations. Voice succeeded voice, almost without pause. The
sweet mother with the child, the painter of San Remo, the jovial and
slangy girl, the commanding and majestic figure of the bishop--all
returned repeatedly, in bewildering mixture, dropping away, one after
the other, with disappointing suddenness. And yet each time the messages
grew a little more definite, a little more coherent, until at last they
all cleared up, and this _in opposition to our thought, to our first
interpretations_. It developed that the painter was not named "Sands,"
but "Felipi," and that he was only trying to tell Brierly that to
succeed he should paint rocks and sands and old boats at San Remo.
"Pauline," the woman who had seemed to hold a babe, was a friend of Mrs.
Cameron's who had died in childbirth. And then swiftly, unaccountably,
all these gentle or genial influences were scattered as if by something
hellish, something diabolic. The face of the sweet little woman became
fiendish in line. Her lips snarled, her hands clawed like those of a
cat, and out of her mouth came a hoarse imprecation. "I'll tear your
heart out!" she snarled. "I'll kill you soul and body--I'll rip you limb
from limb!" We all recoiled in amazement and wonder. It w