ppings began, and finally we got into communication with my father,
who told us to be patient and wait and Waltie would speak to us. Then
the power took hold of Viola and frightened her almost into fits."

The girl visibly shuddered and her eyes fell.

"How did it begin?" asked Kate, breathless with interest.

"The first we noticed was that her left arm began to twitch so that
she couldn't control it. Then she took to writing with her left hand,
exactly like my father's hand-writing. She could write twenty
different kinds of writing before she was twelve. These messages were
all signed, and all said that she was to be a great medium. Then
began the strangest doings. My thimbles would be stolen and hidden,
vases would tumble off the mantels, chairs would rock. It was just
pandemonium there some nights. They used to break things and pound on
the doors; then all of a sudden these doings stopped and Viola went
into deathly trances. I shall never forget that first night. We
thought she was dead. We couldn't see her breathe, and her hands and
feet were like ice."

The girl rose, her face gray and rigid. "Don't mother, don't!" she
whispered. "_They are here!_" She shook her head and cried out as if
to the air: "No, no, not now! No, no!"

The mother spoke. "She is being entranced. Some one has a message for
you, Mrs. Rice?"

For the first time, Kate had a suspicion of both mother and daughter.
This action of the girl seemed a thought too opportune and much too
theatric. Now that her splendid eyes were clouded she lost confidence
in her, and as she waited she grew cold with a kind of disgust and
fear of what was to follow.

The mother gently sided with her daughter against the control, and,
taking both her hands, said, quietly: "Not now, father, not now." But
in vain. The girl sank back into her chair rigid. "They have something
they insist on saying, Mrs. Rice," said Mrs. Lambert, after a silence.
"Is it some one for Mrs. Rice?" Three loud snapping sounds came from
the carpet under Viola's feet.

"Good gracious! What is that?" exclaimed Kate, a cold tremor passing
up her spine.

"It is my father," answered Mrs. Lambert, quite placidly. "Can't you
write, father? Be easy on Viola to-day.--He is very anxious to
converse with you for some reason, Mrs. Rice."

Again a creeping thrill made Kate's hair rise, and she bit her
finger-tip. "Am I dreaming?" she asked herself, as she listened to the
mother talking to the air, o