"Well, I ain't doin' to stay if you don't love me," the shrill voice went on. "I don't like men who don't love me. Good-by, old man, I'm doin'."
There was another wriggle on the part of the medium, after which a lower-toned voice said:
"How do you do! I'm Luella."
He watched the medium's blank, expressionless face as she spoke.
"Say, you ain't well, I can see that. Haven't you got a pain in your leg? Excuse me saying it, but I can feel it right there."
She touched him gently on the thigh.
"Oh, that's only a touch of rheumatism," he replied.
"No, it ain't," she said, "it's more serious than that. It's chronic, and it's growing worse. Sometimes it's so painful that you almost die of it, isn't it? I know where you got it; it come of an accident. I can see you in a big crowded house, like, and there's railroad trains coming and going, and you're crowded and jammed. You got internal injuries and a complication. You didn't realize it at the time, but it's growing worse every day. If you don't look out you'll pass out through it, but if you went right to work, you could be cured of it, before it gets too bad."
"What could I do about it?" he asked. "The doctors don't help me much."
"Of course they don't. You haven't been to the right ones. I was an Indian doctor, and I can see just what's the matter with you. You need a certain kind of herb I used to use when I was on the flesh-plane in Idaho."