"That is her father's hand," again murmured Mrs. Lambert.
Serviss was willing to believe the girl's trance real, and that she had no part in the hocus-pocus up to this point; but even as he leaned forward to peer into the faintly visible face of the sleeper a voice, breathy yet metallic, as though coming through the horn of a phonograph, sounded in his ear. "Be not so doubting, my boy. I, too, doubted."
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Loggy," answered the voice, with a chuckle.
This answer, so unexpected, this chuckle, so familiar, startled him, for it was his pet name for an uncle, a professor of mathematics who used to call himself "Old Logarithms" when in play with his nephews; but, before Serviss had time to put out his hand, the horn came down softly on his head, then withdrew, and a boyish voice laughed in his ear, "You're a dunce!"
Mrs. Lambert bent towards him. "Did some dear one speak to you? I hope so. We are so anxious to have you one of us."
He did not reply, for a third voice, seemingly that of an old man, was issuing from the horn in pompous, stolid, old-fashioned utterance. "The reality of all you see, young man, can be proven. Set yourself to the grand task of destroying all fear of the change men call death. Science is hopeless. We alone can save the world from despair."
"That is my father," explained Mrs. Lambert, "he is my daughter's chief 'control,' He cares for her--teaches her."
Again the floating horn passed Morton's face, and a boyish voice called, "Mamma, are you happy?"
"Yes, dear, when you are with me."
"We're always with you. We're glad P'ofessor Serviss came."
"So are we, Waltie."
"Papa says, 'Tell him to watch--tell him--to be patient--'" The voice hesitated, murmured, and was silent, then added, plaintively: "Oh, dear, there are so many who want to talk--they take my strength away. Good-bye."
The horn dropped with a clang, but was at once caught up and floated away over the circle. Dear names were whispered, secrets recalled. Loved voices, long stilled by the grave, were heard again. Hands that the earth had covered touched tear-wet cheeks, and with these caresses sobbing outcries burst from the women.
"I believe. Yes, yes! I know you, darling," called a man's voice, and his accent was more moving than the cries of the women.
Pratt, in wistful accents, asked, "Is there no one for me to-night?"
"Yes, father," answered a girl's voice from the megaphone, now hanging almost directly in front of Serviss, "we are all here. I'm going to sing for you--the song you liked the best."