Suddenly she began to speak, and the words poured from her lips with a kind of breathless quickness.  But the strange, uncanny, startling thing about it was that the voice which uttered these staccato sentences was not Bubbles’ well modulated, drawling voice.  It was the high, peevish voice of a child—­a child speaking queer, broken English.  Everyone present, even including Varick and Blanche Farrow, who both believed it to be a clever and impudent piece of impersonation, was startled and taken aback by the extraordinary phenomena the girl now presented.  Her eyes were closed, and yet her head was thrust forward as if she was staring at the big, now roaring, wood fire before her.

Rushing out through her scarcely open lips, came the sing-song words:  “Why bring Laughing Water here?  Laughing Water frightened.  Laughing Water want to go away.  Laughing Water hates this house.  Please, Miss Bubbles, let Laughing Water go away!” And Bubbles—­if it was Bubbles—­twisted and turned and groaned, as if in agony.

And then, to the amazement of all those who were there, young Donnington, his face set in grim lines, suddenly addressed Bubbles, or the little pleading creature that appeared to possess the girl:  “Don’t be frightened,” he said soothingly.  “No one’s going to hurt Laughing Water.  Everyone in this room is good and kind.”

In answer, there broke from Bubbles’ lips a loud cry:  “No, no, no!  Bad people—­cruel people—­here!  Bad spirits, too.  Bad chair.  Laughing Water sitting on torture chair!  Miss Bubbles change chair.  Then Laughing Water feel better.”

Bubbles got up as an automaton might have got up, and Donnington, pushing forward one of the painted chairs, drew the low, tapestry covered prie-dieu from under her.

She gave a deep, deep sigh as she sat down again.  Then she turned herself and the chair round till she was exactly facing Varick.  In a voice which had suddenly become much more her own voice she addressed him, speaking slowly, earnestly:  “I see a lady standing behind you.  She is very stern-looking.  She has a pale, worn face, and dark blue eyes.  They are very like your eyes.  Her hair is parted in the middle; it is slightly grey.  She must have passed over about fifteen to twenty years ago.  I think it is your mother.  She wants to, she wants to—­” Bubbles hesitated, and then, speaking now entirely in her own voice, she exclaimed with a kind of gasp—­“to warn you of danger.”

Varick opened his lips, and then he closed them.  He felt shaken with an over-mastering emotion, as well as intense surprise, and, yes, of fierce anger with the girl for daring to do this—­to him.

But Bubbles began again, staring as if at something beyond and behind him.  “Now there’s another figure, standing to your left.  She is still near the earth plane.  I cannot place her at all.  She is short and stout; her grey hair is brushed back from her forehead.  I do not feel as if you had known her very long.”