“And as it was in the old days, so I believe it is to-day. I believe, if God wants to speak to a human soul, livin' or dead, He don't need the help of ropes and boxes and things. It don't look reasonable to think He has to employ such means. And it don't look reasonable to me to think, if He wants to speak to one of His children in comfort or consolation, He will try to drive a hard bargain with 'em, and make 'em pay from fifty cents to a dollar to hear Him, children half price. Howsomever, everybody to their own opinions.”
“You are a unbeliever,” says she bitterly.
“Yes, mom: I s'pose I am. I s'pose I should be called Samantha Allen, U.S., which Stands, Unbeliever in Spiritual Seansys, and also United States. It has a noble, martyrous look to me,” says I firmly. “It makes me think of my errent.”
She tosted her head in a high-headed way, which is gaulin' in the extreme to see in another female. And she says,—
“You are not receptive to truth.”
I s'pose she thought that would scare me, but it didn't. I says,—
“I believe in takin' truth direct from God's own hand and revelation. But I don't have any faith in modern spiritual seansys. They seem to me,—and I would say it in a polite, courtous way, for I wouldn't hurt your feelin's for the world,—all mixed up with modern greed and humbug.”
But, if you'll believe it, for all the pains I took to be almost over-polite to her, and not say a word to hurt her feelin's, that woman acted mad, and flounced out of the room as if she was sent.
Good land! what strange creeters there are in the world, anyway!
Wall, I had fairly forgot that the boy wus in the room. But 1,000 and 5 is a small estimate of the questions he asked me after she went out.