g aloud.
My heart was full and I wept with him.

"Fortunate child of God," said he, after a moment; "you have the seed
of life--immortal life. But I beg you to go. To one like you this house
will seem an uncanny place; I can only think of it as beyond the grave."

"Let me stay, uncle," said I. "Don't send me away. Perhaps I can help
you or comfort you."

"Poor soul! you shall stay if you will. I am in great trouble and need
help, but you are a boy--I cannot ask you to give your life to me."

He sat down before the table, breathing heavily, and beckoned me to
a chair beside him. I was quite dumfounded and knew not what to say.
Presently he began writing upon large sheets of paper, handing each one
to me as soon as it was covered. The manuscript read as follows:

"I am not able to talk much. To me words are a lie and an abomination.
Even these I now write are misrepresenting me and deceiving you, though
I wish them to tell the truth. They will make me out an ass or a madman.
I am neither. For eighteen years I have scarcely spoken as many words. A
word or two of Sanscrit now and then has met my needs, thank God! There
is an interior language for which speech is an imperfect medium. Through
that interior language thought is communicated directly and truthfully.
I used it long before I came here--imperfectly, to be sure, but with a
small degree of satisfaction to myself. Through it I was able to heal
the sick when others failed. I knew how they felt better than they could
tell me in feeble words. In some more perfect state of evolution, beyond
the grave, perhaps, all men will have this power and it will be perfect.
I can enjoy but an imperfect use of it until the mortal part of me
has been cast off. One trained to speech in childhood loses certain
faculties that can never be regained.

"My wife died many years ago. She left me a broken heart and a child,
newly born. I had just built this house, among strangers. We intended to
devote the remainder of our lives to the study of mental phenomena. We
desired to carry on our work without interruption. We planned to live
unknown among those around us. When she died I saw in the child an
opportunity. I determined to make its life a grand experiment; to
preserve and cultivate its native intuitions--the germ of the power of
direct communication. God has vouchsafed success to me. He lives--a man
of exalted powers the like of which the world has never seen but once,
and then in Ch