sts upon the earth, but you got to look for the top of it in
the skies. That's the way I look at it. What do you think, Jackson?
Jombateeste?"

"I think anybody can't see that. Better go and get some heye-glass."

Westover remained in a shameful minority. He said, meekly: "It suggests a
beautiful hope."

Jackson brought his chair-legs down again, and put his hand on the
planchette.

"Feel that tinglin'?" asked. Whitwell, and Jackson made yes with silent
lips. "After he's been workin' the plantchette for a spell, and then
leaves off, and she wants to say something more," Whitwell explained to
Westover, "he seems to feel a kind of tinglin' in his arm, as if it was
asleep, and then he's got to tackle her again. Writin' steady enough now,
Jackson!" he cried, joyously. "Let's see." He leaned over and read,
"Thomas Jefferson--" The planchette stopped, "My, I didn't go to do
that," said Whitwell, apologetically. "You much acquainted with
Jefferson's writin's?" he asked of Westover.

The painter had to own his ignorance of all except the diction that the
government is best which governs least; but he was not in a position to
deny that Jefferson had ever said anything about a broken shaft.

"It may have come to him on the other side," said Whitwell.

"Perhaps," Westover assented.

The planchette began to stir itself again. "She's goin' ahead!" cried
Whitwell. He leaned over the table so as to get every letter as it was
formed. "D--Yes! Death. Death is the Broken Shaft. Go on!" After a moment
of faltering the planchette formed another letter. It was a U, and it was
followed by an R, and so on, till Durgin had been spelled. "Thunder!"
cried Whitwell. "If anything's happened to Jeff!"

Jackson lifted his hand from the planchette.

"Oh, go on, Jackson!" Whitwell entreated. "Don't leave it so!"

"I can't seem to go on," Jackson whispered, and Westover could not resist
the fear that suddenly rose among them. But he made the first struggle
against it. "This is nonsense. Or, if there's any sense in it, it means
that Jeff's ship has broken her shaft and put back."

Whitwell gave a loud laugh of relief. "That's so! You've hit it, Mr.
Westover."

Jackson said, quietly: "He didn't mean to start home till tomorrow. And
how could he send any message unless he was--"

"Easily!" cried Westover. "It's simply an instance of mental
impression-of telepathy, as they call it."

"That's so!" shouted Whitwell, with eager and instant c