Mr. A—— would be thrilled with a sort of ghastly gladness. The angelic visitant was anxious to define his personality by the aid of the Spiritual alphabet, and turned out to be Mr. A——'s father. In life he had signed his name William C. A——, but after suffering the great change the middle initial had been altered into H. But what matter? Such trifling inaccuracies were not counted.
"Miss S——," the medium would say, "I see a spiritual form standing by you."
"Is it my mother?" miss would cry, the tears gushing to her eyes.
"I think it is. She is dressed in gray silk, with lace about her throat. Her hair is dark, and she wears some sort of ornament among the braids."
"Are you sure the hair is dark?" cries Miss S——, almost in hysterics. "My dear mother's hair was quite light, a beautiful golden."
"I see more clearly now," the medium would reply: "the hair is golden."
"A little gray on top?"
"Yes, a little."
"Oh, my mother!" Miss S—— would shriek, gazing beyond vision to find her.
There was much to disappoint—much, in our experience at least, even to disgust—the seeker after truth in these séances. Still, in spite of a general easy method of pronouncing it all humbug, there were things which could not be explained. A light table might be tipped by visible hands if two people agreed, but how could a dining-table, so heavy that a servant could not move it alone, contrive to rise a foot from the floor, and then, when pressed downward with all the strength of which three stout men were capable, remain there, poised in air?