Here she laughed with diabolical pleasure.
“I intend to make the best of this world and stay in it as long as I can, notwithstanding it’s no paradise. But I have lost some illusions in regard to it. For instance, that of my own irresistible attractiveness. I can draw moths yet, but formerly I thought I could attract men, providing I ever encountered such beings.”
Again, night after night, Chrissalyn sat as of old, calling up for her friend’s delight the unseen people who were always ready to respond.
When Cartice spoke of the long time that had passed with never a word from one of them, Moreau said:
“No time has passed. There is no time. To the spirit a thousand years are as one day.”
The last evening in the city came. They were to start for the springs early next day. The luggage was carefully packed and so their minds were easy on that score. When they went upstairs the house was perfectly still, all save themselves being asleep.
They sat down in Chrissalyn’s room to chat. Cartice thought she never had seen the Butterfly look so young, so beautiful, so hopeful, so happy.
Preparing the table for Planchette they eagerly awaited the messages that would surely come over that inexplicable telephone.
Now something passing strange occurred. From the empty air beside them music burst forth—music the like of which they had never heard—music made by instruments unknown to them, but of unearthly sweetness, with power to thrill to the depths of their being.
Awed and amazed the two friends looked at each other, in silence. Then, as its heavenly sweet vibrations shook their souls, the tears ran from their eyes, they knew not why.