ver the world;
but as she claims to have discovered something vital to every human
soul, she is despised. It is your duty to help her. I had her over the
'phone just now, and her voice was trembling with eagerness as she
said, 'Do tell him to please come and see me.'"

This note, so like his sister, so full of her audacities, touched
Morton on the quick. It was plain that she was more than half-seas
over towards faith in the girl, and quite ready to take her up and
exhibit her among her friends. Her use of the word "disease" was
intended as a mockery of his theories. He knew that she was quite
capable of talking over the 'phone precisely as she had written
(reserve was not her strong point), and that she had undoubtedly given
Viola reason to expect him. However, having concluded on his own
account to see her once more, Kate's exhortation merely confirmed him
in a good intention, "I will confront Clarke, and try to pluck the
heart out of this mystery, but I will keep clear of any personal
relation with the girl and her mother," he said, as if in answer to
his sister's admonition.

It was about five o'clock of the afternoon as he again mounted to
Pratt's portico, recalling, as he did so, the dramatic contrasting
scenes of the evening before--on this side of the brick wall a
communion with the dead, on that the throbbing, gay life of a
ballroom. Truly a city street was a microcosm.

A solemn-visaged colored man--not the officious usher of the night
before--took his card and led him into a gorgeous, glacial
reception-room on the left. The house was very still and cold and
gloomy, for the day was darkening and the lights were not yet on. It
impressed him as a vast and splendid tomb, and with a revived
knowledge of Simeon Pratt's tragic history he chilled with a
premonition of some approaching shadow. "What a contrast to the sunlit
cabin of the Colorow!" he inwardly exclaimed, and the thought of the
mountain girl housed in this grim and sepulchral mansion deepened his
wonder.

A gruff voice above inquired: "Who is it? Let me see the card.
Serviss, eh? Tell him--No, wait, I'll go down and see him myself."

Morton smiled grimly, realizing perfectly the manner in which Pratt
had intercepted his card. "The old watch-dog," he exclaimed.

A heavy tread descending the stairs announced the approach of his
host, whose sullen face was by no means engaging as he entered. "Are
you Professor Serviss?"

"I am."

The flabby lips