A few forms, after this, came farther from the cabinet, and their friends were permitted to embrace them. These favored few sat on the front seats. Whispered dialogues took place—innocuous talk of troubles and happiness, perturbed commonplaces that, had they not been sometimes accompanied with genuine tears, would have been nothing but ridiculous. The spirits were all optimistic and willing to help. Their advice, usually, consisted of the statement that "conditions would soon be more favorable." At intervals the singers broke out into new songs, There's a Land that is Fairer than Day—Nearer, My God, to Thee!—and so on. The air became oppressively close. The audience began to whisper, cough and shuffle. Mabel, desirous of excitement, had nudged Dougal again and again, but he had muttered "Not yet!" at each hint.
The song Over There had just ended, and the hush of expectancy had fallen over the company when another form appeared and took a step towards Vixley.
"She says her name is Felicia," he announced. "Does anybody recognize her?"
"I do!" an unctuously mellow voice replied.
"She says she has a message for you," said Vixley, "but she don't want to give it out loud before all these people. Will you come up here?"
Mr. Payson made his way with difficulty, in the dark, past those on his row and came forward.
"You can touch her, if you want to; she's completely materialized. Very strong indeed for one outside Flora's band. She ain't got much vitality, though, and you mustn't tax her too much."
The old man reached forward and touched a cold hand.
"Is it you, Felicia?" he asked tremulously.
"Yes, dear!" was the answer, in a thick, hoarse whisper. "I'm glad to see you here. You must come often. I've tried so hard to get you. I want to help you."