Lute was not surprised.  “It is my mother,” she said simply.  “What does she say?”

She had not been made sleepy, as Chris had; but the keen edge of her vitality had been blunted, and she was experiencing a sweet and pleasing lassitude.  And while the message was being read, in her eyes persisted the vision of her mother.

“Dear child,” Mrs. Grantly read, “do not mind him.  He was ever quick of speech and rash.  Be no niggard with your love.  Love cannot hurt you.  To deny love is to sin.  Obey your heart and you can do no wrong.  Obey worldly considerations, obey pride, obey those that prompt you against your heart’s prompting, and you do sin.  Do not mind your father.  He is angry now, as was his way in the earth-life; but he will come to see the wisdom of my counsel, for this, too, was his way in the earth-life.  Love, my child, and love well.—­Martha.”

“Let me see it,” Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring the handwriting with her eyes.  She was thrilling with unexpressed love for the mother she had never seen, and this written speech from the grave seemed to give more tangibility to her having ever existed, than did the vision of her.

“This is remarkable,” Mrs. Grantly was reiterating.  “There was never anything like it.  Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother here with us tonight.”

Lute shivered.  The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural self again, vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen.  And it was offensive to her mind that, real or illusion, the presence or the memorized existences of her father and mother should be touched by these two persons who were practically strangers—­Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy and morbid, and Mr. Barton, stolid and stupid with a grossness both of the flesh and the spirit.  And it further seemed a trespass that these strangers should thus enter into the intimacy between her and Chris.

She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situation flashed upon her, luminous and clear.  She hurriedly folded the sheet of paper and thrust it into her bosom.

“Don’t say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly, please, and Mr. Barton.  Nor to Aunt Mildred.  It would only cause them irritation and needless anxiety.”

In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knew that the strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle would be added to, unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message of Planchette.

“And please don’t let us have any more Planchette,” Lute continued hastily.  “Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred.”

“‘Nonsense,’ my dear child?” Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protesting when Uncle Robert strode into the circle.

“Hello!” he demanded.  “What’s being done?”

“Too late,” Lute answered lightly.  “No more stock quotations for you.  Planchette is adjourned, and we’re just winding up the discussion of the theory of it.  Do you know how late it is?”