"I think she is waking," said Morton.
Mrs. Lambert answered, quickly: "No. Some great event is preparing—when this paroxysm passes some very beautiful test will come."
While Morton and Weissmann were considering this the girl again became silent as a stone, and a moment later a clear, sweet sound pulsed through the air as if an exquisite crystal bell had been struck. Then, while still this signal trembled in his ear, a whispering noise developed just before the young man's face, as if tremulous lips were closing and unclosing in anxious effort to communicate a message without the use of the trumpet.
"Is some one trying to speak to me?" he asked, gently.
Three measured strokes upon, the tiny bell replied, and with their pulsations the room seemed to stir with a new and different throng of winged memories. The very air took on mystery and beauty and a sweet gravity. Matter was for the moment as subtle, as imponderable as soul.
"Who is it?" he asked, and into his voice, in spite of himself, crept a note of awe.
The answer came instantly, faint as the fall of an autumn leaf on the grass.
"Mother."
Kate bent eagerly forward, "Who was it, Morton?"
Ignoring her question Morton addressed the invisible one. "Can't you speak again?"