Leo confessed to somewhat the same feeling. "Heaven—any kind of heaven—has always been incomprehensible to me, and yet we must believe there is some sort of system of rewards and punishments. Anyhow, your mother's death was glorious. She died as she would have wished to die—in proving her faith."
"She gave too much," he protested. "All her life she was set apart to do a martyr's work. I understand now why my father couldn't stand it. I know how he must have resented these Voices, and I cannot blame him for going away. Would you marry a man like Stainton Moses or David Home?"
She recoiled a little before the thought. "Of course not—but—"
"What?"
"Your mother was charming. If your father really loved her—"
"He did! I'm sure of that, at first, but these 'ghosts' destroyed his home. My mother confessed to me that they tormented my father for his unbelief, and he had to go."
"They are together now, and he believes."
Victor fixed a penetrating look upon her. "Do you really believe that the dead speak to us?"
"I see no reason why they shouldn't—if they want to. How else can you explain these Voices?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid these modern Italian scientists are right. The Voices were only 'parasitic personalities,' nothing else. But let's not talk of them. I'm tired of the 'ghost-room'—all my life I've had it—and now I'm going to forget it if I can."