“I don’t believe a word of it.”

This unusual manner of receiving a message shocked the devout.  A murmur of protest arose.

“Now, now, now, Tamson,” remonstrated Miss Beebe.  “You mustn’t talk so.  Course you believe it if the control says so.”

“I don’t neither.  Florabel Tidditt ain’t dead.  She’s as well as I be.  I had a letter from her yesterday.”

There was considerable agitation for a few minutes.  Then it developed that the Florabel seeking to communicate was not Miss Tidditt, but another, a relative so long gone that Tamson had forgotten she ever existed.  At length she was brought to the point of admitting that it seemed as if she had heard of a cousin of her grandmother’s named Florabel or Annabel or something.  The message was not very coherent nor particularly interesting, so the incident ended.

A short time later came the sensation which was to make the evening memorable in East Wellmouth’s spiritualistic circles.  Little Cherry Blossom called the name which many had expected and some, Lulie Hallett and Martha Phipps in particular, dreaded to hear.

“Jethro!” croaked the Blossom.  “Jethro!”

Captain Hallett had been very quiet, particularly since the Florabel message was tangled in transit.  Martha could see his shaggy head in silhouette against the dim light of the lamp and had noticed that that head scarcely moved.  The light keeper seemed to be watching the medium very intently.  Now he spoke.

“Yes?” he said, as if awakened from sleep.  “Yes, here I am.  What is it?”

“Jethro,” cried the control once more.  “Jethro, somebodee come speakee to you. . . .  Julia!  Julia!”

Captain Jethro rose from his chair.  The loved name had as always an instant effect.  His heavy voice shook as he answered.

“Yes, yes, Julia,” he cried.  “Here I am, Julia, waitin’—­waitin’.”

It was pathetic, pitiful.  One listener in that circle felt, in spite of his own misery, a pang of remorse and a little dread.  After all, perhaps it would have been better to—­

“Julia,” cried the light keeper.  “Speak to me.  I’m waitin’.”

The foghorn boomed just here, but even after the sound had subdued Little Cherry Blossom seemed to find it difficult to proceed.  She—­ or the medium—­choked, swallowed, and then said: 

“Julia got message.  Yes, indeedee.  Important message, she sayee, for Jethro.  Jethro must do what she sayee.”

The captain’s big head nodded vigorously.  Martha could see it move, a tousled shadow against the light.

“Yes, yes, Julia, of course,” he said.  “I always do what you say.  You know I do.  Go on.”

“Father!” It was Lulie’s voice, raised in anxious protest.  “Father, please.”

Her father sharply ordered her to be quiet.

“Go on, Julia,” he persisted.  “Tell me what you want me to do.”