III. The Misses Berry.

No one introduced me to the Misses Berry. I saw their advertisement in the public papers and went incognita to their sÉance, as I had done to those of others. The first thing that struck me about them was the superior class of patrons whom they drew. In the ladies' cloak room, where they left their heavy wraps and umbrellas, the conversation that took place made this sufficiently evident. Helen and Gertrude Berry were pretty, unaffected, lady-like girls; and their conductor, Mr. Abrow, one of the most courteous gentlemen I have ever met. The sisters, both highly mediumistic, never sat together, but on alternate nights, but the one who did not sit always took a place in the audience, in order to prevent suspicion attaching to her absence. Gertrude Berry had been lately married to a Mr. Thompson, and on account of her health gave up her sÉances, soon after I made her acquaintance She was a tall, finely-formed young woman, with golden hair and a beautiful complexion. Her sister Helen was smaller, paler and more slightly built. She had been engaged to be married to a gentleman who died shortly before the time fixed for their wedding, and his spirit, whom she called "Charley," was the principal control at her sÉances, though he never showed himself. I found the sÉance room, which was not very large, crammed with chairs which had all been engaged beforehand, so Mr. Abrow fetched one from downstairs and placed it next his own for me, which was the very position I should have chosen. I asked him afterwards how he dared admit a stranger to such close proximity, and he replied that he was a medium himself and knew who he could and who he could not trust at a glance. As my professional duties took me backwards and forwards to Boston, which was my central starting-point, sometimes giving me only a day's rest there, I was in the habit afterwards, when I found I should have "a night off," of wiring to Mr. Abrow to keep me a seat, so difficult was it to secure one unless it were bespoken. Altogether I sat five or six times with the Berry sisters, and wished I could have sat fifty or sixty times instead, for I never enjoyed any sÉances so much in my life before. The cabinet was formed of an inner room with a separate door, which had to undergo the process of being sealed up by a committee of strangers every evening. Strips of gummed paper were provided for them, on which they wrote their names before affixing them across the inside opening of the door. On the first night I inspected the cabinet also as a matter of principle, and gummed my paper with "Mrs. Richardson" written on it across the door. The cabinet contained only a sofa for Miss Helen Berry to recline upon. The floor was covered with a nailed-down carpet. The door which led into the cabinet was shaded by two dark curtains hung with rings upon a brass rod. The door of the sÉance room was situated at a right angle with that of the cabinet, both opening upon a square landing, and, to make "assurance doubly sure," the door of the sÉance room was left open, so that the eyes of the sitters at that end commanded a view, during the entire sitting, of the outside of the locked and gummed-over cabinet door. To make this fully understood, I append a diagram of the two rooms—

Floor plan

By the position of these doors, it will be seen how impossible it would have been for anybody to leave or enter the cabinet without being detected by the sitters, who had their faces turned towards the sÉance room door. The first materialization that appeared that evening was a bride, dressed in her bridal costume; and a gentleman, who was occupying a chair in the front row, and holding a white flower in his hand, immediately rose, went up to her, embraced her, and whispered a few words, then gave her the white flower, which she fastened in the bosom of her dress, after which he bowed slightly to the company, and, instead of resuming his seat, left the room. Mr. Abrow then said to me, "If you like, madam, you can take that seat now," and as the scene had excited my curiosity I accepted his offer, hoping to find some one to tell me the meaning of it. I found myself next to a very sweet-looking lady, whom I afterwards knew personally as Mrs. Seymour. "Can you tell me why that gentleman left so suddenly?" I asked her in a whisper. "He seldom stays through a sÉance," she replied; "he is a business man, and has no time to spare, but he is here every night. The lady you saw him speak to is his wife. She died on her wedding day, eleven years ago, and he has never failed to meet her on every opportunity since. He brings her a white flower every time he comes. She appears always first, in order that he may be able to return to his work." This story struck me as very interesting, and I always watched for this gentleman afterwards, and never failed to see him waiting for his bride, with the white flower in his hand. "Do you expect to see any friends to-night?" I said to my new acquaintance. "O! yes!" she replied. "I have come to see my daughter 'Bell.' She died some years ago, and I am bringing up the two little children she left behind her. I never do anything for them without consulting their mother. Just now I have to change their nurse, and I have received several excellent characters of others, and I have brought them here this evening that 'Bell' may tell me which to write for. I have the pattern for the children's winter frocks, too," she continued, producing some squares of woolen cloths, "and I always like to let 'Bell' choose which she likes best." This will give my readers some idea of how much more the American spiritualists regard their departed friends as still forming part of the home circle, and interested in their domestic affairs. "Bell" soon after made her appearance, and Mrs. Seymour brought her up to me. She was a young woman of about three or four and twenty, and looked very happy and smiling. She perused the servants' characters as practically as her mother might have done, but said she would have none of them, and Mrs. Seymour was to wait till she received some more. The right one had not come yet. She also looked at the patterns, and indicated the one she liked best. Then, as she was about to retire, she whispered to her mother, and Mrs. Seymour said, to my surprise (for it must be remembered I had not disclosed my name to her), "Bell tells me she knows a daughter of yours in the spirit life, called 'Florence.' Is that the case?" I answered I had a daughter of that name; and Mrs. Seymour added "'Bell' says she will be here this evening, that she is a very pure and very elevated spirit, and they are great friends." Very shortly after this, Mr. Abrow remarked, "There is a young girl in the cabinet now, who says that if her mother's name is 'Mrs. Richardson,' she must have married for the third time since she saw her last, for she was 'Mrs. Lean' then." At this remark I laughed; and Mr. Abrow said, "Is she come for you, madam? Does the cap fit?" I was obliged to acknowledge then that I had given a false name in order to avoid recognition. But the mention of my married name attracted no attention to me, and was only a proof that it had not been given from any previous knowledge of Mr. Abrow's concerning myself. I was known in the United States as "Florence Marryat" only, and to this day they believe me to be still "Mrs. Ross-Church," that being the name under which my first novels were written. So I recognized "Florence" at once in the trick that had been played me, and had risen to approach the curtain, when she came bounding out and ran into my arms. I don't think I had ever seen her look so charming and girlish before. She looked like an embodiment of sunshine. She was dressed in a low frock which seemed manufactured of lace and muslin, her hair fell loose down her back to her knees, and her hands were full of damask roses. This was in December, when hot-house roses were selling for a dollar a piece in Boston, and she held, perhaps, twenty. Their scent was delicious, and she kept thrusting them under my nose, saying, "Smell my roses, mother. Don't you wish you had my garden? We have fields of them in the Summer Land! O! how I wish you were there." "Shan't I come soon, darling?" I said. "No! not yet," replied "Florence." "You have a lot of work to do still. But when you come, it will be all flowers for you and me." I asked her if she knew "Bell," and she said, "O! yes! We came together this evening." Then I asked her to come and speak to "Bell's" mother, and her manner changed at once. She became shy and timid, like a young girl, unused to strangers, and quite hung on my arm, as I took her up to Mrs. Seymour's side. When she had spoken a few words to her in a very low voice, she turned to me and said, "I must go now, because we have a great surprise for you this evening—a very great surprise." I told her I liked great surprises, when they were pleasant ones, and "Florence" laughed, and went away. I found that her dÉbut had created such a sensation amongst the sitters—it being so unusual for a materialized spirit to appear so strong and perfect on the first occasion of using a medium—that I felt compelled to give them a little explanation on the subject. And when I told them how I had lost her as a tiny infant of ten days old—how she had returned to me through various media in England, and given such unmistakable proofs of her identity—and how I, being a stranger in their country, and only landed there a few weeks, had already met her through Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Hatch and Miss Berry—they said it was one of the most wonderful and perfect instances of materialization they had ever heard of. And when one considers how perfect the chain is, from the time when "Florence" first came back to me as a child, too weak to speak, or even to understand where she was, to the years through which she had grown and became strong almost beneath my eyes, till she could "bound" (as I have narrated) into my arms like a human being, and talk as distinctly as (and far more sensible than) I did myself, I think my readers will acknowledge also, that hers is no common story, and that I have some reason to believe in Spiritualism.

Miss Berry's cabinet spirits were quite different from the common type. One was, or rather had been, a dancing girl—not European, but rather more, I fancy, of the Asiatic or Egyptian type. Anyway she used to come out of the cabinet—a lithe lissom creature like a panther or a snake—and execute such twists and bounds and pirouettes, as would have made her fortune on the stage. Indeed I used to think (being always on the lookout for chicanery) that no human creature who could dance as she did would ever waste her talents, especially in a smart country like America, on an audience of spiritualists, whose only motive for meeting was to see their friends, and who would not pay an extra cent to look at a "cabinet spirit." Another one was an Indian whom they called "The Brave." He was also a lithe, active creature, without an ounce of superfluous flesh upon his body, but plenty of muscle. He appeared to like the ladies of the company very much, but evidently distrusted the men. One stout, big man who was, I fancy, a bit of a sceptic, wished to test the "Brave's" muscular power by feeling his biceps, and was invited to step in front of the circle for that purpose. He had no sooner approached him than the Indian seized him up in his arms and threw him right over his head. He did not hurt him, but as the gentleman got up again, he said, "Well! I weigh 200 pounds, and I didn't think any man in the room could have done that." The ladies in the circle mostly wore flowers in their bosom—bouquets, after the custom of American ladies—and they began, one and all, to detach flowers from their bouquets and give them to the "Brave," "to give to his squaw." He nodded and gabbled some unintelligible Sioux or Cherokee in reply, and went all round the circle on his knees. The stout man had surmised that he was painted, and his long, straight, black hair was a wig. When he came to me I said, "Brave! may I try if your hair is a wig?" He nodded and said, "Pull—pull!" which I did, and found that it undoubtedly grew on his head. Then he took my finger and drew it across his face several times to show he was not painted. I had no flowers to present him with, so I said, "Come here, Brave, and I'll give you something for your squaw," and when he approached near enough I kissed him. He chuckled, and his eyes sparkled with mischief as he ran chatting in his native dialect behind the curtains. In another minute he dashed out again, and coming up to me ejaculated, "No—give—squaw!" and rushed back. Mr. Abrow laughed heartily at this incident, and so did all the sitters, the former declaring I had entirely captivated the "Brave." Presently the cabinet curtains were shaken, and after a pause they parted slowly, and the figure of an Indian squaw crept out. Anything more malignant and vicious than her look I have seldom seen. Mr. Abrow asked her who she wanted and what she wanted, but she would not speak. She stood there silent, but scowling at me from beneath the tangles of her long black hair. At last Mr. Abrow said to her, "If you don't want to speak to anyone in the circle you must go away, as you are only preventing other spirits from coming." The squaw backed behind the curtains again rather sulkily, but the next time the "Brave" appeared she came with him, and never did he come again in my presence but what his "squaw" stood at the curtains and watched his actions. Mrs. Abrow told me that the "Brave" had been in the habit of manifesting at their sÉances for years, but that they had never seen the "squaw" until that evening. Indeed, I don't think they were very grateful to me for having by my rashness eliminated this new feature in their evening's entertainment, for the "squaw" proved to be a very earthly and undeveloped spirit, and subsequently gave them some trouble, as they could not drive her away when they wanted to do so. Towards the close of the evening Mr. Abrow said, "There is a spirit here now who is very anxious to show himself, but it is the first time he has ever attempted to fully materialize, and he is not at all certain of success. He tells me there is a lady in the circle who has newly arrived in America, and that this lady years ago sang a song by his dying bed in India. If she will step up to the cabinet now and sing that song again he will try and shew himself to her."

Such of my readers as have perused "The story of John Powles" will recognize at once who this was. I did, of course, and I confess that as I rose to approach the cabinet I trembled like an aspen leaf. I had tried so often, and failed so often to see this dear old friend of mine, that to think of meeting him now was like a veritable resurrection from the dead. Think of it! We had parted in 1860, and this was 1884—twenty-four years afterwards. I had been a girl when we said "Good-bye," and he went forth on that journey which seemed then so mysterious an one to me. I was a middle-aged woman now, who had passed through so much from which he had been saved, that I felt more like his mother than his friend. Of all my experiences this was to me really the most solemn and interesting. I hardly expected to see more than his face, but I walked up to the cabinet and commenced to sing in a very shaky voice the first stanza of the old song he was so fond of:—

I had scarcely reached the finish of these lines when both the curtains of the cabinet were drawn apart so sharply that the brass rings rattled on the rod, and John Powles stood before me. Not a face, nor a half-formed figure, nor an apparition that was afraid to pass into the light—but John Powles himself, stalwart and living, who stepped out briskly and took me in his arms and kissed me four or five times, as a long-parted brother might have done; and strange to say, I didn't feel the least surprised at it, but clung to him like a sister. For John Powles had never once kissed me during his lifetime. Although we had lived for four years in the closest intimacy, often under the same roof, we had never indulged in any familiarities. I think men and women were not so lax in their manners then as they are now; at anyrate, the only time I had ever kissed him was when he lay dead, and my husband had told me to do so. And yet it seemed quite natural on meeting him again to kiss him and cry over him. At last I ventured to say, "O, Powles! is this really you?" "Look at me and see for yourself," he answered. I looked up. It was indeed himself. He had possessed very blue eyes in earth life, good features, a florid complexion, auburn hair, and quite a golden beard and moustache. The eyes and hair and features were just the same, only his complexion was paler, and he wore no beard. "O!" I exclaimed, "where is your beard?" "Don't you remember I cut it off just before I left this world?" he said; and then I recalled the fact that he had done so owing to a Government order on the subject.

And bearing on this question I may mention what seems a curious thing—that spirits almost invariably return to earth the first time just as they left it, as though their thoughts at the moment of parting clothed them on their return. This, however, was not John Powles' first attempt at materialization, although it was his first success, for it may be remembered he tried to show himself through Miss Showers, and then he had a beard. However, when I saw him through Miss Berry, he had none, nor did he resume it during my stay in America. When we had got over the excitement of meeting, he began to speak to me of my children, especially of the three who were born before his death, and of whom he had been very fond. He spoke of them all by name, and seemed quite interested in their prospects and affairs. But when I began to speak of other things he stopped me. "I know it all," he said, "I have been with you in spirit through all your trials, and I can never feel the slightest interest in, or affection for, those who caused them. My poor friend, you have indeed had your purgatory upon earth." "But tell me of yourself, dear Powles! Are you quite happy?" I asked him. He paused a moment and then replied, "Quite happy, waiting for you." "Surely you are not suffering still?" I said, "after all these years?" "My dear Florence," he answered, "it takes more than a few years to expiate a life of sin. But I am happier than I was, and every year the burden is lighter, and coming back to you will help me so much."

As he was speaking to me the curtain opened again, and there stood my brother-in-law, Edward Church, not looking down-spirited and miserable, as he had done at Mrs. Eva Hatch's, but bright and smiling, and dressed in evening clothes, as also I perceived, when I had time to think of it, was John Powles. I didn't know which to talk to first, but kept turning from one to the other in a dazed manner. John Powles was telling me that he was preparing my house for me in the Summer Land, and would come to take me over to it when I died, when "Ted" interrupted him. "That ought to have been my work, Bluebell," he said, "only Powles had anticipated me." "I wish I could go back with you both at once, I am sick of this world," I replied. "Ted" threw his arms round me and strained me to his breast. "O! it is so hard to part again. How I wish I could carry you away in my arms to the Summer Land! I should have nothing left to wish for then." "You don't want to come back then, Ted?" I asked him. "Want to come back," he said with a shudder; "not for anything! Why, Bluebell, death is like an operation which you must inevitably undergo, but which you fear because you know so little about it. Well, with me the operation's over. I know the worst, and every day makes the term of punishment shorter. I am thankful I left the earth so soon." "You look just like your old self, Ted," I said; "the same little curls and scrubby little moustache." "Pull them," he answered gaily. "Don't go away, Bluebell, and say they were false and I was Miss Berry dressed up. Feel my biceps," he continued, throwing up his arm as men do, "and feel my heart," placing my hand above it, "feel how it is beating for my sister Bluebell."

I said to John Powles, "I hardly know you in evening costume. I never saw you in it before" (which was true, as all our acquaintance had taken place in India, where the officers are never allowed to appear in anything but uniform, especially in the evenings). "I wish," I continued, "that you would come next time in uniform." "I will try," he replied, and then their time was up for that occasion, and they were obliged to go.

A comical thing occurred on my second visit to the Berrys. Of course I was all eagerness to see my brother-in-law and "Powles" again, and when I was called up to the cabinet and saw a slim, dark, young man standing there, I took him at once for "Ted," and, without looking at him, was just about to kiss him, when he drew backwards and said, "I am not 'Edward!' I am his friend 'Joseph,' to whom he has given permission to make your acquaintance." I then perceived that "Joseph" was very different from "Ted," taller and better looking, with a Jewish cast of countenance. I stammered and apologized, and felt as awkward as if I had nearly kissed a mortal man by mistake. "Joseph" smiled as if it were of very little consequence. He said he had never met "Ted" on earth, but they were close friends in the spirit world, and "Ted" had talked so much to him of me, that he had become very anxious to see me, and speak to me. He was a very elegant looking young man, but he did not seem to have very much to say for himself, and he gave me the impression that he had been a "masher" whilst here below, and had not quite shaken off the remembrance in the spirit world.

There was one spirit who often made her appearance at these sittings and greatly interested me. This was a mother with her infant of a few weeks old. The lady was sweet and gentle looking, but it was the baby that so impressed me—a baby that never whined nor squalled, nor turned red in the face, and yet was made of neither wax nor wood, but was palpably living and breathing. I used always to go up to the cabinet when this spirit came, and ask her to let me feel the little baby. It was a tiny creature, with a waxen-looking face, and she always carried it enveloped in a full net veil, yet when I touched its hand, the little fingers tightened round mine in baby fashion, as it tried to convey them to its mouth. I had seen several spirit children materialized before, but never such a young infant as this. The mother told me she had passed away in child-birth, and the baby had gone with her. She had been a friend of the Misses Berry, and came to them for that reason.

On Christmas Eve I happened to be in Boston, and disengaged, and as I found it was a custom of the American Spiritualists to hold meetings on that anniversary for the purpose of seeing their spirit friends, I engaged a seat for the occasion. I arrived some time before the sÉance commenced, and next to me was seated a gentleman, rather roughly dressed, who was eyeing everything about him with the greatest attention. Presently he turned to me and said, rather sheepishly, "Do you believe in this sort of thing?" "I do," I replied, "and I have believed in it for the last fifteen years." "Have you ever seen anybody whom you recognized?" he continued. "Plenty," I said. Then he edged a little nearer to me, and lowered his voice. "Do you know," he commenced, "that I have ridden on horseback forty miles through the snow to-day to be present at this meeting, because my old mother sent me a message that she would meet me here! I don't believe in it, you know. I've never been at a sÉance before, and I feel as if I was making a great fool of myself now, but I couldn't neglect my poor old mother's message, whatever came of it." "Of course not," I answered, "and I hope your trouble will be rewarded." I had not much faith in my own words, though, because I had seen people disappointed again and again over their first sÉance, from either the spirits of their friends being too weak to materialize, or from too many trying to draw power at once, and so neutralizing the effect on all. My bridegroom friend was all ready on that occasion with his white flowers in his hand and I ventured to address him and tell him how very beautiful I considered his wife's fidelity and his own. He seemed pleased at my notice, and began to talk quite freely about her. He told me she had returned to him before her body was buried, and had been with him ever since. "She is so really and truly my wife," he said, "as I received her at the altar, that I could no more marry again than I could if she were living in my house." When the sÉance commenced she appeared first as usual, and her husband brought her up to my side. "This is Miss Florence Marryat, dear," he said (for by this time I had laid aside my incognita with the Berrys). "You know her name, don't you?" "O! yes," she answered, as she gave me her hand, "I know you quite well. I used to read your books." Her face was covered with her bridal veil, and her husband turned it back that I might see her. She was a very pretty girl of perhaps twenty—quite a gipsy, with large dark eyes and dark curling hair, and a brown complexion. "She has not altered one bit since the day we were married," said her husband, looking fondly at her, "whilst I have grown into an old man." She put up her hand and stroked his cheek. "We shall be young together some day," she said. Then he asked her if she was not going to kiss me, and she held up her face to mine like a child, and he dropped the veil over her again and led her away. The very next spirit that appeared was my rough friend's mother, and his astonishment and emotion at seeing her were very unmistakeable. When first he went up to the cabinet and saw her his head drooped, and his shoulders shook with the sobs he could not repress. After a while he became calmer, and talked to her, and then I saw him also bringing her up to me. "I must bring my mother to you," he said, "that you may see she has really come back to me." I rose, and the old lady shook hands with me. She must have been, at the least, seventy years old, and was a most perfect specimen of old age. Her face was like wax, and her hair like silver; but every wrinkle was distinct, and her hands were lined with blue veins. She had lost her teeth, and mumbled somewhat in speaking, and her son said, "She is afraid you will not understand what she says; but she wants you to know that she will be quite happy if her return will make me believe in a future existence." "And will it?" I asked. He looked at his mother. "I don't understand it," he replied. "It seems too marvellous to be true; but how can I disbelieve it, when here she is?" And his words were so much the echo of my own grounds for belief, that I quite sympathized with them. "John Powles," and "Ted," and "Florence," all came to see me that evening; and when I bid "Florence" "good-bye" she said, "Oh, it isn't 'good-bye' yet, mother! I'm coming again, before you go." Presently something that was the very farthest thing from my mind—that had, indeed, never entered it—happened to me. I was told that a young lady wanted to speak to me, and on going up to the cabinet I recognized a girl whom I knew by sight, but had never spoken to—one of a large family of children, living in the same terrace in London as myself, and who had died of malignant scarlet fever about a year before. "Mrs. Lean," she said, hurriedly, noting my surprise, "don't you know me? I am May ——." "Yes, I do recognize you, my dear child," I replied; "but what makes you come to me?" "Minnie and Katie are so unhappy about me," she said. "They do not understand. They think I have gone away. They do not know what death is—that it is only like going into the next room, and shutting the door." "And what can I do, May?" I asked her. "Tell them you have seen me, Mrs. Lean. Say I am alive—more alive than they are; that if they sit for me, I will come to them and tell them so much they know nothing of now." "But where are your sisters?" I said. She looked puzzled. "I don't know. I can't say the place; but you will meet them soon, and you will tell them." "If I meet them, I certainly will tell them," I said; but I had not the least idea at that moment where the other girls might be. Four months later, however, when I was staying in London, Ontario, they burst unexpectedly into my hotel room, having driven over (I forget how many miles) to see me play. Naturally I kept my promise; but though they cried when "May" was alluded to, they evidently could not believe my story of having seen her, and so, I suppose, the poor little girl's wish remains ungratified. I think the worst purgatory in the next world must be to find how comfortably our friends get on without us in this. As a rule, I did not take much interest in the spirits that did not come for me; but there was one who appeared several times with the Berrys, and seemed quite like an old friend to me. This was "John Brown," not her Majesty's "John Brown," but the hero of the song—

When I used to hear this song sung with much shouting and some profanity in England, I imagined (and I fancy most people did) that it was a comic song in America. But it was no such thing. It was a patriotic song, and the motive is (however comically put) to give glory to God, that, although they may hang "John Brown" on a sour apple tree, his soul will yet "go touting around." So, rightly or wrongly, it was explained to me. "John Brown" is a patriotic hero in America, and when he appeared, the whole room crowded round to see him. He was a short man, with a singularly benevolent countenance, iron grey hair, mutton-chop whiskers, and deep china blue eyes. A kind of man, as he appeared to me, made for deeds of love rather than heroism, but from all accounts he was both kind and heroic. A gentleman present on Christmas eve pushed forward eagerly to see the materialization, and called out, "Aye! that's him—that's my old friend—that's 'John Brown'—the best man that ever trod this earth." Before this evening's sÉance was concluded Mr. Abrow said, "There is a little lady in the cabinet at present who announces herself as a very high personage. She says she is the 'Princess Gertrude.'" "What did you say, Mr. Abrow?" I exclaimed, unable to believe my own ears. "'The Princess Gertie,' mother," said "Florence," popping her head out of the curtains. "You've met her before in England, you know." I went up to the cabinet, the curtains divided, there stood my daughter "Florence" as usual, but holding in front of her a little child of about seven years old. I knelt down before this spirit of my own creation. She was a fragile-looking little creature, very fair and pale, with large grey eyes and brown hair lying over her forehead. She looked like a lily with her little white hands folded meekly in front of her. "Are you my little Gertie, darling?" I said. "I am the 'Princess Gertie,'" she replied, "and 'Florence' says you are my mother." "And are you glad to see me, Gertie?" I asked. She looked up at her sister, who immediately prompted her. "Say, 'yes, mother,' Gertie." "Yes! mother," repeated the little one, like a parrot. "Will you come to me, darling?" I said. "May I take you in my arms?" "Not this evening, mother," whispered 'Florence,' "you couldn't. She is attached to me. We are tied together. You couldn't separate us. Next time, perhaps, the 'Princess' will be stronger, and able to talk more. I will take her back now." "But where is 'Yonnie'?" I asked, and "Florence" laughed. "Couldn't manage two of them at once," she said. "'Yonnie' shall come another day," and I returned to my seat, more mystified than usual.

I alluded to the "Princess Gertie" in my account of the mediumship of Bessie Fitzgerald, and said that my allusion would find its signification further on. At that time I had hardly believed it could be true that the infants who had been born prematurely and never breathed in this world should be living, sentient spirits to meet me in the next, and half thought some grown spirit must be tricking me for its own pleasure. But here, in this strange land, where my blighted babies had never been mentioned or thought of, to meet the "Princess Gertie" here, calling herself by her own name, and brought by her sister "Florence," set the matter beyond a doubt. It recalled to my mind how once, long before, when "AimÉe" (Mr. Arthur Colman's guide), on being questioned as to her occupation in the spirit spheres, had said she was "a little nurse maid," and that "Florence" was one too, my daughter had added, "Yes! I'm mamma's nurse maid. I have enough to do to look after her babies. She just looked at me, and 'tossed' me back into the spirit world, and she's been 'tossing' babies after me ever since."

I had struck up a pleasant acquaintanceship with Mrs. Seymour, "Bell's" mother, by that time, and when I went back to my seat and told her what had occurred, she said to me, "I wish you would share the expenses of a private sÉance with me here. We can have one all to ourselves for ten dollars (two pounds), and it would be so charming to have an afternoon quite alone with our children and friends." I agreed readily, and we made arrangements with Mr. Abrow before we left that evening, to have a private sitting on the afternoon following Christmas Day, when no one was to be admitted except our two selves. When we met there the sÉance room was lighted with gas as for the evening, but we preferred to close the door. Helen Berry was the medium, and Mr. Abrow only sat with us. The rows of chairs looked very empty without any sitters, but we established ourselves on those which faced the cabinet in the front row. The first thing which happened was the advent of the "Squaw," looking as malignant and vicious as ever, who crept in in her dirty blanket, with her black hair hanging over her face, and deliberately took a seat at the further end of the room. Mr. Abrow was unmistakably annoyed at the occurrence. He particularly disliked the influence of this spirit, which he considered had a bad effect on the sÉance. He first asked her why she had come, and told her her "Brave" was not coming, and to go back to him. Then he tried severity, and ordered her to leave the sÉance, but it was all in vain. She kept her seat with persistent obstinacy, and showed no signs of "budging." I thought I would try what kindness would do for her, and approached her with that intention, but she looked so fierce and threatening, that Mr. Abrow begged me not to go near her, for fear she should do me some harm. So I left her alone, and she kept her seat through the whole of the sÉance, evidently with an eye upon me, and distrusting my behavior when removed from the criticism of the public. Her presence, however, seemed to make no difference to our spirit friends. They trooped out of the cabinet one after another, until we had Mrs. Seymour's brother and her daughter "Bell," who brought little "Jimmie" (a little son who had gone home before herself) with her, and "Florence," "Ted," and "John Powles," all so happy and strong and talkative, that I told Mrs. Seymour we only wanted a tea-table to think we were holding an "At Home." Last, but not least (at all events in her own estimation) came the "Princess Gertie." Mr. Abrow tried to make friends with her, but she repulsed his advances vehemently. "I don't like you, Mr. Mans," she kept on saying, "you's nasty. I don't like any mans. They's all nasty." When I told her she was very rude, and Mr. Abrow was a very kind gentleman and loved little children, she still persisted she wouldn't speak "to no mans." She came quite alone on this occasion, and I took her in my arms and carried her across to Mrs. Seymour. She was a feather weight. I felt as if I had nothing in my arms. I said to Mrs. Seymour, "Please tell me what this child is like. I am so afraid of my senses deceiving me that I cannot trust myself." Mrs. Seymour looked at her and answered, "She has a broad forehead, with dark brown hair cut across it, and falling straight to her shoulders on either side. Her eyes are a greyish blue, large and heavy lidded, her nose is short, and her mouth decided for such a child."

This testimony, given by a stranger, of the apparition of a child that had never lived, was an exact description (of course in embryo) of her father, Colonel Lean, who had never set foot in America. Perhaps this is as good a proof of identity as I have given yet. Our private sÉance lasted for two hours, and although the different spirits kept on entering the cabinet at intervals to gain more power, they were all with us on and off during the entire time. The last pleasant thing I saw was my dear "Florence" making the "Princess" kiss her hand in farewell to me, and the only unpleasant one, the sight of the sulky "Squaw" creeping in after them with the evident conviction that her afternoon had been wasted.