oying all fear of the change men call death.
Science is hopeless. We alone can save the world from despair."

"That is my father," explained Mrs. Lambert, "he is my daughter's
chief 'control,' He cares for her--teaches her."

Again the floating horn passed Morton's face, and a boyish voice
called, "Mamma, are you happy?"

"Yes, dear, when you are with me."

"We're always with you. We're glad P'ofessor Serviss came."

"So are we, Waltie."

"Papa says, 'Tell him to watch--tell him--to be patient--'" The voice
hesitated, murmured, and was silent, then added, plaintively: "Oh,
dear, there are so many who want to talk--they take my strength away.
Good-bye."

The horn dropped with a clang, but was at once caught up and floated
away over the circle. Dear names were whispered, secrets recalled.
Loved voices, long stilled by the grave, were heard again. Hands that
the earth had covered touched tear-wet cheeks, and with these caresses
sobbing outcries burst from the women.

"I believe. Yes, yes! I know you, darling," called a man's voice, and
his accent was more moving than the cries of the women.

Pratt, in wistful accents, asked, "Is there no one for me to-night?"

"Yes, father," answered a girl's voice from the megaphone, now hanging
almost directly in front of Serviss, "we are all here. I'm going to
sing for you--the song you liked the best."

This she did in a far-away voice, sweetly and with excellent
vocalization, but the first notes startled Serviss. They were from
"The Banks of Loch Lomond," the very song Clarke sang to Viola's
accompaniment that night in the little cabin in Colorow. "And yet she
told me she had no voice!" he said to himself, and a bitter heat
overcame the chill of his disgust, "What unconscionable trickery!"
This last piece of deception seemed to involve the girl more directly
than any other of the evening's accursed jugglery.

Pratt was pleading, brokenly: "My old paw is open, Jennie; put your
hand in it--just for a moment--as you used to. I'm so lonely without
you. Girls, can't you touch your old father? Give me a kiss--and
mother, is she with you to-night?"

"Yes, we're all here. I can't kiss you to-night, father; sometime I
will," the gentle voice replied. "I'm not strong enough to-night."
There was infinite regret in the tone, which conveyed to Serviss, with
singular vividness, a virginal charm, united to something very sweet,
almost saintly. Every sentiment had been beautifully voi