lifted his palm from it, and put it aside to study the hieroglyphics it
had left on the paper.

"What's it say?" asked his mother.

The young man whispered: "I can't seem to make out very clear. I guess I
got to take a little time to it," he added, leaning back wearily in his
chair. "Ever seen much of the manifestations?" he gasped at Westover.

"Never any, before," said the painter, with a leniency for the invalid
which he did not feel for his belief.

The young man tried for his voice, and found enough of it to say:
"There's a trance medium over at the Huddle. Her control says 't I can
develop into a writin' medium." He seemed to refer the fact as a sort of
question to Westover, who could think of nothing to say but that it must
be very interesting to feel that one had such a power.

"I guess he don't know he's got it yet," his mother interposed. "And
planchette don't seem to know, either."

"We ha'n't given it a fair trial yet," said the young man, impartially,
almost impassively.

"Wouldn't you like to see it do some of your sums, Jeff?" said the
mother to the drowsy boy, blinking in a corner. "You better go to bed."

The elder brother rose. "I guess I'll go, too."

The father had not joined their circle in the parlor, now breaking up by