Such was the man whose appearance gave evident pleasure to Mrs. Weir, notwithstanding the intimation of her daughter, just made, that his evil eyes had fallen upon her, and that already his polluting breath had touched her fair young cheek.
As the two entered the parlors, Dyer still holding the woman’s hand, he gazed into her eyes with a fixed look, beneath which her own did not quail.
“And what have the spirits been saying to you this morning?” He spoke in a low voice, modulated to musical cadences, and bent his face close to hers. “I can see, by the lucid depth and strange ethereal brightness of your eyes, that you have been holding sweet communion with them.”
They sat down upon a sofa, and Mrs. Weir replied,—
“New spheres are opening to me. I am anxious to rise higher, higher, into more celestial states; but the spirits are ever teaching me lessons of patience. I am too worldly yet, they say. The dross of this outer sphere is dimming my fine gold; the stain of earth is on my garments. Their low whispers are lingering yet in my ears, and my soul feels the hush of a deep tranquillity.”
“Beautiful! Celestial!” And Mr. Dyer raised his hands in almost saintly benediction.
“Of all this the scoffing world knows nothing,” went on Mrs. Weir, murmuring in a soft, sweet voice. “It is too gross and sensual, and, like the swine, tramples on these precious pearls.”
“And still, like the swine,” added Dyer, “turns upon and rends us who cast them at its feet.”
“Alas! too true!” Mrs. Weir spoke almost sadly.
“But the spirits sustain us. Their communications are our exceeding great reward,” said Dyer, with enthusiasm. “We are not in the world nor of it, but enjoy the glorious privileges of the immortals.”