alone. Was I equal to the task? Could my nerves, already unstrung by the previous night's experience, withstand the ordeal?
I must confess, and not without a feeling of shame, that at this juncture I felt impelled to flee, anywhere, and leave my deceased uncle's affairs to shape themselves as they would.
With this idea in mind, I repaired to my room and started to pack my grip. Something fell to the floor. It was my uncle's last letter, received only the day before the telegram arrived announcing his death. I hesitated-then picked it up and opened it. The last paragraph help my attention:
"And, Billy, my boy, don't worry any more about the moeny I advanced you. It was, as you say, a considerable drain my resources, but I gave it willingly, gladly, for the education of my sister's son. My only regret is that I could not have done more.
"Affectionately
"Uncle Jim."
A flush of guilt came over me. The reproach of my conscience was keen and painful. I had been about to commit a cowardly, dishonorable deed.
"Thank God, for the accidental intervention of that letter." I said fervently.
My resolution was firmly made now, I would see the thing through at all costs. The noble love, the generous self-sacrifice of my uncle, should not go unrequited.
I quickly unpacked my bag and walked downstairs. The rest of the day was uneventful, but the night-how I dreaded the coming of the night! As I stood on the porch and watched the last faint glow of the sunset slowly fading, I wished that I, liked Joshua, might cause the sun and moon to stand still.
Twilight came on all too quickly, accelerated by a bank of heavy clouds which appeared on the western horizon: and darkness succeeded twilight with unwanted rapidity.
I entered the house and trod the hallway leading to the living-room, with much the same feeling, no doubt, that a convict experiences when entering the death cell.
The housekeeper was just placing the lamp, freshly cleaned and filled, in the room. Joe Severs' younger brother, Sam, had placed logs in the fireplace, with kindling and paper beneath them, ready for lighting. Mrs. Rhodes bade me a kindly "Good-nigh, sir," and departed noiselessly.
At last the dreaded moment had arrived. I was alone with the nameless powers of darkness.
I shuddered involuntarily. A damp chill pervaded the air, and I ignited the kindling beneath the logs in the fireplace. Then, drawing the shades to shut out the pitch blackness of the night, I lighted my pipe and stood in the warm glow.
Under the genial influence of pipe and warmth, my feeling of fear was temporarily dissipated. Taking a book from the library table, I settled down to read. It was called "The Reality of Materialization Phenomena," and had been written by my uncle. The publishers were Bulwer & Sons, New York and London.
It was apparently a record of the observations made by my uncle at materialization seances in this country and Europe. Contrary to my usual custom on starting a book, I read the author's introduction. He began by expressing the wish that those who might read the work should first lay aside all prejudice and all preconceived ideas regarding the subject, which were not based on positive knowledge: then weigh the facts as he had found them before drawing a definite conclusion.
The following passage, in particular, held my attention:
"While it is to be admitted, with regret, that there are many people calling themselves mediums, who deceive their sitters nightly and whose productions are consequently mere optical illusions, produced my chicanery and legerdemain, the writer has nevertheless gathered, at the sittings recorded in this book, where all possibility of fraud was excluded by rigorous
