ve The Machine
rose a nickel-plated flexible arm, at the end of which hung a sort of
helmet. Some distance back of the arm, and extending about a foot above
the cabinet, were two tubes connected by a glass plate; and beneath the
plate, a telescope arrangement into which was set a gleaming lens.

Mr. Procter opened a door at the side of the cabinet. The children,
peering in, beheld interesting looking springs, coils, and batteries. He
shut the door, walked around to the front of the cabinet and opened
another and smaller door. Here the children, following, saw a number of
small black discs. The inventor reached in, touched a lever, and
immediately a rhythmic, clicking sound ensued.

Next he drew down dark shades over the low windows. The filmed glass
plate above the cabinet alone showed clear in the eclipse, as though
waiting.

"Now, Suzanna, come!"

Suzanna, at some new electric quality in her father's voice, sprang
forward. He procured a chair, placed it directly before the cabinet,
drew the flexible arm till the helmet rested perhaps four inches above
the child's head but did not touch it, pulled forward the telescope and
focused its lens upon her expectant face.

"Watch the plate glass," he said in a tense whisper, and Suzanna kept
her eyes as directed.

A moment passed. No sound came but the rhythmic ticking. The inventor's
face was white. His eyes, dark, held a gleam and a prayer. Another
space, and then very slowly a shadowy line of color played upon the
glass set between the two tubes; color so faint, so delicate, that
Suzanna wondered if she saw clearly.

But the color strengthened, and at last all saw plainly a line of rich
deep purple touched with gold. It remained there triumphant upon the
glass, a royal bar.

Silent moments breathed themselves away, for the test had come and it
had not failed. Suzanna, at last moving her gaze from the color
registered, turned to her father. She saw, with a leap of the heart,
that his eyes were wet. He seemed to have turned to an immovable image,
and yet never did life seem to flow out so richly from him.

Peter broke the quiet. "What does it mean, daddy, that color?" he asked.

Suddenly galvanized, Mr. Procter ran to the stairs outside. His voice
rang out like a bell.

"Jane, come, come!"

Mrs. Procter, in the kitchen, caught the exultant note in his voice. She
was stirring batter for a cake, but she flung down the spoon and ran up
the stairs.

"Oh, Richard