Erastus Beebe had turned up one of the lamps and it happened to be the one just above Miss Hoag’s head.  By its light Martha Phipps could see the medium’s face, and it seemed to her—­although, as she admitted afterward, perhaps because of subsequent happenings she only imagined that it seemed so—­it seemed to her that Marietta was torn between an intense desire to give up mediumizing for that evening and a feeling that she must go on.

“She looked to me,” said Martha, “as if she was afraid to go on, but more afraid to stop.”

However, go on she did.  She told the light keeper that she guessed she could get back if Tamson would play a little spell more.  Miss Black agreed to do so, provided she might have a chair instead of a music stool.

“I wouldn’t risk settin’ on that plaguy, slippery haircloth thing again for no mortal soul,” declared the irate Tamson, meaning, doubtless, to include immortals.  A chair was provided, again the lights were dimmed, and the seance resumed, punctuated now at minute intervals by the shattering bellows of the great foghorn.

In a few minutes the messages began to arrive.  They were of similar vague import to those of the previous seance and, couched in Little Cherry Blossom’s weird gibberish, were vaguer still.  Occasionally a spirit seeking identification went away unrecognized, but not often.  For the most part the identifying details supplied were so general that they were almost certain to fit a departed relative or friend of some one present.  And, as is usual under such circumstances, the would-be recognizer was so pathetically eager to recognize.  Even Galusha, dully inert as he was just then, again felt his indignation stirred by the shabby mockery of it all.

Obed Taylor received a message from his brother Daniel who had died in infancy.  Daniel declared himself very happy.  So, too, did Ophelia Beebe’s great-aunt Samona, who had “passed over” some time in the ’fifties.  Aunt Samona was joyful—­oh, so joyful.  Miss Black’s name was called.

“Tamson!” croaked Little Cherry Blossom.  “Some one heree wantee Tamson.”

Miss Black uttered an exclamation of startled surprise.  “Good gracious me!” she cried.  “Who is it?”

“Namee seem likee—­likee Flora—­Flora—­somethin’,” announced the control.  The circle rustled in anticipation while Tamson ransacked her memory.

“Flora?” she repeated.  “Flora?”

“Yes—­yes.  Flora—­ah—­ah—­somethin’.  Somethin’—­soundee likee somethin’ you ring.”

“Somethin’ I ring.  Why, all a body rings is a bell.  Hey?  My heavens above, you don’t mean Florabel?  That ain’t the name, is it—­Florabel?”

“Yes—­yes—­yes—­yes.”  Little Cherry Blossom was eagerly certain that that was the name.

“Mercy on us!  Florabel?  You don’t mean you’ve got a message from my niece Florabel Tidditt, do you?”

“Yes—­yes—­yes—­oh, yes!” The control was just as certain that niece Florabel was on the wire.