into a room
where there are two desks. In the second drawer of one of these are
the papers of the transaction which you had in your hand to-day. You
are going to invest $4,000. Is that all so?"

"Perfectly," said the man, in amazement.

"Well, now, these two men are sharpers, and if you want to save that
$4,000 keep out of that bargain. Legal advice is good, but mine is
better."

"I believe it," said the man, emphatically. His name was C. G. Bulmer,
and he lives at 229 Macon Street, Brooklyn. Your correspondent has
since verified the accuracy of the test.

"And don't you suffer with your limbs?" he inquired of a lady just in
front of him.

"Well, not now; I used to; I feel it now."

"Well, I am going to show you that I know all about your limbs. The
pain is here," he continued, touching the calf of his leg. "You have a
peculiar feeling of drowsiness and then sharp pains run through you,
right there. Is it true?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll tell you something else. You missed what your sister called a
big chance when you were seventeen years old, and she said you were a
great fool to let it go by. Is that so?"

"It is," said the lady reddening.

"There's a man in the hall," he continued, pacing restlessly up and
down with clasped hands. "He has been sitting here and saying to him
self, 'Well, this is all mind-reading. Now, if he will tell me
something that is going to happen I may believe something in
Spiritualism.' He has been rather scoffing me. Now, I want to know if
this is true. I am talking to you," pointing his long, thin finger at
a gray-haired man who sat on his left. "All correct?" The man bowed
his head. "Well, I tell you, that one Christmas day," he continued, so
solemnly that a hush fell on the audience--"I don't think the spirits
ought to tell these things, but I am forced to say that one Christmas
day a member of your family will die." A startled look passed over his
face, and a shiver ran through the audience at the uncanny message.
The man's name could not be learned, but on the succeeding Sunday your
correspondent heard two women get up in the audience and admit that
the young Spiritualist was correct.

SPIRIT PICTURES.--Henry Rogers, a slate writing and prescribing medium
of established reputation, recently located at 683 Tremont Street,
Boston, has wonderful powers in the production of spirit pictures of
the departed. His most recent success is certainly a fine work of art,
resembling a cra