"His theory is that they are only mental images transferred by some unknown mental power to the plates."
"What about the figure of your grandsire?"
"His theory is that the figure was really the etheric self of my mother—shaped to the form like my grandsire by her own mind."
She stared at him. "And you accept that?"
"I don't know what else to believe. Yes, I accept that. I don't believe the dead have any right to talk and fool with the lives of the living the way I've been fooled with and side-tracked." His voice was full of fervor now. "I'm going to live my own life hereafter irrespective of the dead—responsible only to the living. I will not be disciplined by ghosts."
The girl laid the photographs down softly and looked at him with frank admiration. "You're a very extraordinary young man," she said, sagely.
"No, I'm not!" he protested. "I'm just a good average. A week ago my hottest ambition was to carry the Winona ball team to victory. If I had the money and the courage I'd go back there to-morrow and finish my course."
"What do you mean by courage?"
"Well, you know what I'd be loaded up with. To go back there now would be the devil and all. Your article broke my peaceful combination just a week ago last Sunday."
"But I have undone my work. I have vindicated your mother. You have a right to be proud of her. She was as real a martyr as ever went to the stake."