say, causes the doubt to arise in my mind.  What if there be something in it?  I am not so sure.  Science may be too dogmatic in its denial of the unseen.  The forces of the unseen, of the spirit, may well be too subtle, too sublimated, for science to lay hold of, and recognize, and formulate.  Don’t you see, Chris, that there is rationality in the very doubt?  It may be a very small doubt—­oh, so small; but I love you too much to run even that slight risk.  Besides, I am a woman, and that should in itself fully account for my predisposition toward superstition.

“Yes, yes, I know, call it unreality.  But I’ve heard you paradoxing upon the reality of the unreal—­the reality of delusion to the mind that is sick.  And so with me, if you will; it is delusion and unreal, but to me, constituted as I am, it is very real—­is real as a nightmare is real, in the throes of it, before one awakes.”

“The most logical argument for illogic I have ever heard,” Chris smiled.  “It is a good gaming proposition, at any rate.  You manage to embrace more chances in your philosophy than do I in mine.  It reminds me of Sam—­the gardener you had a couple of years ago.  I overheard him and Martin arguing in the stable.  You know what a bigoted atheist Martin is.  Well, Martin had deluged Sam with floods of logic.  Sam pondered awhile, and then he said, ‘Foh a fack, Mis’ Martin, you jis’ tawk like a house afire; but you ain’t got de show I has.’  ‘How’s that?’ Martin asked.  ‘Well, you see, Mis’ Martin, you has one chance to mah two.’  ‘I don’t see it,’ Martin said.  ‘Mis’ Martin, it’s dis way.  You has jis’ de chance, lak you say, to become worms foh de fruitification of de cabbage garden.  But I’s got de chance to lif’ mah voice to de glory of de Lawd as I go paddin’ dem golden streets—­along ‘ith de chance to be jis’ worms along ’ith you, Mis’ Martin.’”

“You refuse to take me seriously,” Lute said, when she had laughed her appreciation.

“How can I take that Planchette rigmarole seriously?” he asked.

“You don’t explain it—­the handwriting of my father, which Uncle Robert recognized—­oh, the whole thing, you don’t explain it.”

“I don’t know all the mysteries of mind,” Chris answered.  “But I believe such phenomena will all yield to scientific explanation in the not distant future.”

“Just the same, I have a sneaking desire to find out some more from Planchette,” Lute confessed.  “The board is still down in the dining room.  We could try it now, you and I, and no one would know.”

Chris caught her hand, crying:  “Come on!  It will be a lark.”

Hand in hand they ran down the path to the tree-pillared room.

“The camp is deserted,” Lute said, as she placed Planchette on the table.  “Mrs. Grantly and Aunt Mildred are lying down, and Mr. Barton has gone off with Uncle Robert.  There is nobody to disturb us.”  She placed her hand on the board.  “Now begin.”