’Ah, Olive dear, how lovely of you to materialize!  Did you really want to come back?’ ‘Very much, of course,’ she answered.  ’And do you remember the sweet years of old?’ ‘All of them,’ she whispered.  ’Do you remember,’ I continued, ‘the old oak near Sumner-place?’ [A happy hit, in the longitude of Boston!] ‘Yes, indeed, I do,’ was the low reply, as her head fell gently on my shoulder.  ’And do you remember, Olive dear, whose names were carved on it?’ ‘Yes; ah, yes!’ ’Oh, Olive, there’s one thing I want so much to ask you about.  Tell me, dear, if I speak of anything you don’t remember.  What was the matter with you that afternoon, one summer, when your father rode his hunter to the town, and Albert followed after upon his; and then your mother trundled to the gate behind the dappled grays.  Do you remember it, dear?’ ‘Perfectly.’  ’Well, don’t you remember, nothing seemed to please you that afternoon, you left the novel all uncut upon the rosewood shelf, you left your new piano shut, something seemed to worry you.  Do you remember it, dear one?’ ‘All of it, yes, yes.’  ’Then you came singing down to that old oak, and kissed the place where I had carved our names with many vows.  Tell me, you little witch, who were you thinking of all that time?’ ’All the while of you,’ she sighed.  ’And do you, oh, do you remember that you fell asleep under the oak, and that a little acorn fell into your bosom and you tossed it out in a pet?  Ah, Olive dear, I found that acorn, and kissed it twice, and kissed it thrice for thee!  And do you know that it has grown into a fine young oak?’ ‘I know it,’ she answered softly and sadly, ‘I often go to it!’ This was almost too much for me, and as my memory, on the spur of the moment, of Tennyson’s Talking Oak was growing misty, I was afraid the interview might become embarrassing for lack of reminiscences, so I said, ’Dearest Olivia, that is so lovely of you.  There, be a good girl, good-bye now.  You’ll surely come and see me again the next time I come here, won’t you?’ ‘Yes, indeed, I will.’  I released my arm from encircling a very human waist, and Olive lifted her head from my shoulder, where she had been speaking close to my ear, and de-materialized.

Marie St. Clair, who, on Spiritual authority as I have shown above, shares the ownership with Sister Belle of ‘Yorick’s’ skull in my possession, has never failed to assent whenever I ask a Spirit if it be she.  To be sure, she varies with every different Medium, but that is only one of her piquant little ways, which I early learned to overlook and at last grew to like.  She is both short and tall, lean and plump, with straight hair and with curls, young and middle-aged, so that now it affords me real pleasure to meet a new variety of her; but in all her varieties she never fails to express her delight over my guarding with care that which was ‘the last thing on her neck before she passed over.’  I was extremely anxious to obtain a written acknowledgment of this pleasure