They sat down at the table and placed their hands upon it. The professor sat with his back to the light, which fell full upon Luisa's face. The little table was in the shadow. After eleven minutes of profound silence, the professor murmured:
"It is beginning to move."
In fact the table was gradually leaning over to one side. Presently it righted itself, and knocked once, lightly. Luisa's face brightened.
"Who are you?" said the professor. "Answer with the usual alphabet."
There came seventeen, then fourteen, then eighteen knocks, and then one alone. "Rosa," said the professor softly. Rosa was a little sister of his wife's who had died in infancy, and the table had knocked out this name on several previous occasions. "Go away," said Gilardoni. "Send Maria to us."
The table soon began to move again, and knocked out the words:
"It is I, Maria!"
"Maria, Maria, my own Maria!" whispered Luisa, her face assuming an expression of intense joy.
"Do you know the contents of the letter your father has written to your mother?" Gilardoni inquired.
The table answered: