"But the flower," said Dr. Pendegrast, stooping down, "is as fresh as if it were plucked yesterday."

"True. By a process well known to chemists, I have preserved the lily in its original freshness ; even the dew still glistens on it. See! Cecil's breath has clouded the glass. The flower is

moving! Mute, mute, if she would but speak to me!"

"And you really think this pretty world is inhabited by a spirit?"

"There's not the slightest doubt of it."

"Would it not be well," remarked Dr. Pendegrast, lifting his eyebrows speculatively, "to look into this? For our own satisfaction, you know, to say nothing of the spirit, which must be very uncomfortable in such snug quarters. Suppose, for instance, we take a peep in at the petals?"

"Not for worlds! Our grosser sense would fail to perceive the soul within. I have thought of it. The thin shell which separates us, has baffled my endeavor to reach her. Once I dared to dream it

possible to hold communication with Cecil-by means of a small magnetic telegraph, my own invention. But the experiment threatened to annihilate the flower. Since then, it has lain untouched, sealed hermetically from the air, in its transparent prison."

Dr. Pendegrast smiled.

"You are laughing at me, doctor," said I, sharply.

"Not I! It's the most interesting circumstance that ever came under my observation."

"No doubt it sounds strangely to you, doctor. I have, before now, encountered people who thought me a little out on the subject, and said so flatly."

66

They were very injudicious."

"To be sure; but I always observed that they were persons of inferior intellect- believing only what they could comprehend, they were necessarily contracted. To metaphysicians, students of life and death, the facts which I could unfold relative

to this flower and other matters, would afford material for serious speculation."

"I believe you," said Dr. Pendegrast.

“And I am strongly inclined to give the scientific world the benefit of my memoirs. Indeed, it is a part of my destiny to do so."

"You delight me," said Dr. Pendegrast. "Do it at once. It will be a healthful relaxation. You are working too hard on that infernal machine of yours.'

"You mean the MOON-APPARATUS."

"I beg your pardon, I meant the MOON-AP

"I will commence my memoirs to-morrow."

"And I shall hold it a privilege," said the doctor courteously, drawing on his glove, "to follow the progress of your work."

"You shall do so."

Dr. Pendegrast took his leave.

"O, Lynde, Lynde!" I heard him exclaim as he went down stairs.

That man appreciates me.

A week has elapsed since this conversation occurred, and I still linger at the threshhold of my confessions. I half dread to ring up the curtain on such a sorrowful play as it is, for the dramatis personæ are the shades of men and women long since dead. Their graves lie scattered over the world, north, south, east, and west. It seems almost cruel to bring them together on the stage

again. Who that has fretted his brief hour here would care to return? Yet I must summon

these shadows, for a moment, from the dark.

CHAPTER II.

BY THE SEASHORE.

N the summer of 18- I occupied an old house near the seashore, in New England. The beach, a mile off, stretched along the indented coast, looking as if it were an imSmense mottled serpent that had

been suddenly petrified in the midst

of its writhings. On the right, a

ruined fort stared at the ocean, over the chalky crags. At the back of the house were some two hundred acres of woodland, moistened here and there by ponds filled with marvellous white lilies. The weather-beaten roofs and steeples of the town glanced through the breezy elm trees on the left;