“‘Will what I fear ever happen?’” she read slowly. Then she sighed, “I cannot say, my child.” Every one present knew she spoke to Natalie, although the question had not been signed. “I hope not,—I think not,—but the vision is clouded. It is better that you forget all. Forget the past, live for a bright and happy future. The vision fades.”
They had come to know that that last phrase meant the end of a subject, and the next one would ensue.
With scarcely a pause and without hesitation, Orienta went on:
“‘What can I do to help?’” No hint was needed, for all felt sure this was Beatrice Faulkner’s question.
The Priestess spoke impersonally, in even tones, and said: “Nothing more than you are doing. Your kindness, cheer and sympathy are needed here and they are appreciated.”
“The rest in the light?” asked Bobsy Roberts, impatiently.
“If you choose,” returned Joyce, and Roberts switched on the electrics.
Orienta, with closed eyes, sat holding the next envelope in readiness. She seemed not to know or care whether it was light or dark.
“‘Am I doing right?’” she read. For an instant the long lashes on the cheeks of the Priestess lifted, and she flashed a momentary glance at Joyce. “Yes, you are doing right. Continue in the procedure you have planned.”
A look of contentment passed over Joyce’s face. She showed intense relief, and oblivious to the others’ curious glances she drew a long sigh and relaxed in her chair.