ing
that Mr. Fenwick must be a confirmed invalid, confined to his room.
Luncheon over, Fern Fenwick invited Fillmore Flagg to her study to
consider the business of the work before them. Her study proved to be
the large square room in the central tower, which was so generously
lighted by its eight large windows. The furniture was of carved oak; the
carpet and hangings, rich and heavy, were of a pale lilac tint, which
gave an air of peaceful quiet and harmony to the room. From the front
window, looking eastward, a long stretch of the beautiful Hudson could
be seen at one sweeping glance. In the south east corner of the room
stood Fern Fenwick's desk, a large one with a roll top. At the right of
the desk, on an easel against the wall, was a very fine, life size
crayon portrait of a noble looking man of sixty winters or more. The
massive forehead was both broad and high and very smooth. The eyes were
wide apart, large and expressive, the full beard, thick and fine; the
hair, abundant and wavy. Both hair and beard were evenly tinged with
gray. The body was large, erect and well proportioned--it fittingly
matched the noble head. The portrait impressed one as being life-like
and full of character. Close beside the easel was a large arm chair,
upholstered with stuffed leather, a grayish brown. Lying across the arms
of the chair was a large, peculiarly shaped trumpet of aluminum,
ornamented with a heavy cord and tassel of gray silk.

"Mr. Flagg," said Fern Fenwick, "this is my private workroom; here I am
undisturbed and not at home to callers. This is my desk. Here you see my
father's portrait: this is his favorite chair. Will you be seated in the
smaller chair near it? I will sit in the chair at my desk."

"Pardon me, Miss Fenwick," said Fillmore Flagg, "Up to this time I had
thought of you as living here with your father: I now perceive, from the
way you speak of his portrait and of his favorite chair, that he must be
dead. Please correct me if I am wrong in my conclusions."

"I will explain the situation in a very few words," said Fern Fenwick.

"In the eyes of the world I am an orphan, my father and mother having
both passed from this to the land of spirit. The world, in its blind
ignorance, calls them dead. To me, thanks to my mediumship, and to the
mighty truth of spirit communion, they are still conscious, living,
loving parents. Every day, here in this room, they come to me and
through the trumpet there, speak to me a