The cry of the multitude is, that mediumship and impressibility detract from individual life, lessens the whole tone of manhood, and transforms the subject to a mere machine.  Such conclusions are far from correct.  Our whole being is enriched, and made stronger and fuller by true impressibility.  Are we in any degree depleted if we for a time become messengers to bear from friend to friend, words of love, cheer and encouragement?  Are we mere machines, because we obey the promptings of the unseen and go where sorrow sits with bowed head, or want and misery wait for relief?  If so, we are in good service, and have the consciousness of knowing, that, being thus the instruments of God’s will, we cannot be otherwise than dear to him.

All matter is mediumistic.  Life is tributary, one phase to another, and soul to soul speaks suggestively.

The ocean has its fullness from tributary streams which flow to its bed.

Lives alone are great that are willing to be fed.

CHAPTER XII.

Summer’s soft foliage changed to gold and red, and the distant hill-tops rested their brown summits against blue and sapphire skies.  A soft mist lay over the scene, almost entrancing, to the soul, while the senses seemed wrapped in that dream-cloud which borders the waking and sleeping worlds.

Seven times had the cyprus turned to a golden flame, beside the grave of fair Alice.

Seven times had the pines nodded over the snow-white bed, under which lay her sacred dust.

Seven years had gone by with their lights and shadows, since he laid her form beneath the green sod-and wept as only those have wept, whose light has gone out from their dwelling.

Rich and full had these years been in their strange experiences, while firm as a rock had grown his faith in the unseen whose love and guardianship is round us as the atmosphere is about the earth.  It was a fact to him and not sentiment alone, that, though his Alice had passed on to a higher existence, her life was more clearly than ever blended with his own.  Like warp and woof, their souls seemed woven, and he would sooner have doubted his material existence, than question her daily presence.

The days grew richer in glory, till one by one, the dry leaves withered and fell to the ground, as even our brightest hopes must sometimes fade and fall.  The sky was darker and more lowery.  The air lost its balmy softness, and was harsh and chilly, till no sign of foliage was seen,—­nought but the leafless branches stretching their bare arms towards the sky.  The meadows were brown and cheerless.  The silvery brooks trilled out no merry song.  Life grew hushed and still without, while more joyous became the tones of happy hearts within pleasant homes.  Fires blazed on the hearth-stones, and charity went abroad, to administer to those whom Christ has said, “Ye have always with you.”  Cities were gay with life, and people went to and fro from homes of plenty, with quick, earnest steps, as though life was a continuous chain of golden links.