e theatre or the drawing-room. This fact,
from a cynical point of view, proved his faith to have been as truly
of his laboratory as that of a bishop, with Spencer and Darwin and
Koch and Haeckel as the founders of its articles.

He went home that night with the words of both Weissmann and Britt
intermingling in his mind, strongly tempted to tell Viola's story to
his sister, and so enlist her sympathy for the poor girl.

But it happened that an engagement to dine filled Kate's mind, and he
had no time to open the subject till they were on the way, and by that
time he had concluded not to involve her in his perplexity.

By a curious coincidence one of the guests at the dinner brought a
hush of expectancy over the entire company by relating a series of
experiences he had been privileged to share with a "psychic" some
years before. He told of his mystification with a laugh in his eyes
and with racy vigor of tongue, but Serviss, newly alive to the topic,
could not but marvel at the intensity of interest manifested by every
soul present. "Disguise it as we may," said the narrator, "this
question of the life beyond the grave is chief of all our problems. It
is the sovereign mystery, after all."

At this the hostess spoke: "I wish _we_ could see some of these
things. You make us shudder deliciously. Can't you sometime bring
this remarkable young woman--they're always women, aren't they?"

"Oh no," laughingly replied the young fellow. "One of the most amusing
'stunts' I ever saw was that of a man in Washington, who made a banjo
play behind a curtain while holding both your hands."

"Why _do_ the spirits do such foolish things? I should think they'd be
ashamed to act so 'frivolous like.'"

"They always talk like Indians, don't they? It's a pity. Why aren't
they dignified and sincere?"

The young story-teller went on. "That's just it. The mediums are so
nonchalant while causing these marvels that they fail to convince.
Why, when I was holding a slate in order that they might write upon
it, I minded the scratching no more than a clock a-ticking, they had
made me that careless of their hocus-pocus. A voice in my ear can't
make me start, and nothing, absolutely nothing, can now 'rouse my fell
of hair.' You put a potato in the ashes of the hearth and it will
ultimately pop into something to eat. You put a medium in a dark place
and she will set your soul's nerves a-tingle."

Under all this banter Serviss perceived the pulse