His thoughts recurred, as they always did when he felt sad or serious, to Jane Melville—­to the will that had brought them together, and at the same time so cruelly parted them—­to the unknown father, whose own life had been blighted by the loss of domestic happiness, dealing so fatal a blow to the son whom he meant to bless and reward, by placing him in circumstances where he could not help loving Jane, and forbidding—­so far as he could forbid—­the marriage of two souls made for one another.  Francis was wondering if his father now saw the mistake he had committed, or regretted it, when he was startled by the announcement that his father was in the room, and wished to communicate with him.

“How am I to know it is he?” said Francis, starting up incredulously, but at the same time somewhat awed by the mere possibility that such a one was there, out of the body, owning him as his son, which he had not done while he was alive.

“Does the spirit mean to communicate by raps or through the medium?” asked Mr. Dempster.

“By raps,” was the answer given.

“Take the alphabet in your own hand,” said Mr. Dempster, “and ask the spirit his name, and then pass your finger over the alphabet—­the rap will arrest you at the right letter.”

Francis passed his finger along the alphabet, half disdainfully, half in curiosity.  The rap stopped him at the letter H. He had never thought the curious little taps sounded so unearthly before.  Next he was stopped at E, then at N, then at R, and next at Y; and so on, till the full name of Henry Hogarth was spelled out.

“You wish to communicate with me;—­then you love me now?”

The three quick raps meaning “Yes” was the immediate reply.

“Are you satisfied with what I have done at Cross Hall since your death?”

Again the alphabet was called for, and the raps spelled out, “Very much pleased.”

“Are you sorry for the will you made?”

“All will be well in the end,” was spelled out.

“Did you see your nieces’ sufferings unmoved—­their poverty, their disappointments, their unfitness for the work that you had set them to do?”

“They are better for what they have suffered,” was spelled out; “and you too.”

“Does the letter in my pocket come from my mother?”

The three raps replied in the affirmative.

“Did you give her an annuity, as she says you did?”

A single rap, meaning “No,” was the reply.

“What did you give her, then, to make her forego her claims on you?”

“A sum of money,” was the reply.

Francis observed a great difference in the character of the raps proceeding from Mr. Hogarth from those of the spirit last summoned, which had been supposed to be that of Mr. Dempster’s eldest daughter, who had died at sixteen, and of a lingering disease.  The latter were faint, and almost inaudible to an unpractised ear, while those of his father were firm and distinct.  There was never any power of knowing from what part of the room the raps would come, and as answer after answer appeared to come so readily to his questions, it is not to be wondered at that Francis felt excited and awed at the mysterious intercourse.