"Yes, I do, Victor. I feel that very deeply, but the higher wisdom of your grandfather resigns me. I cannot tell what is behind it. By his power to read the future he may be preventing some terrible accident, some calamity by fire or water—I have an impression that it is something of that sort."
"No," came a whisper from the air.
She turned her face upward, and, listening intently, asked, "What is the reason, father?"
"Discipline," the whisper replied.
"He says 'discipline,' Victor."
"Discipline!" he echoed. "Why should I be disciplined? What have I done?"
"It is not what you've done—it's what you are to do."
The Voice did not reply to further questions, and the silence gave out a kind of cold contempt, which cut the boy as he waited.
"Let's try that slate business again," he said at last. But to this his mother would not consent.
"It's of no use," she said. "They are gone. There is no 'power' present."