o put them there.

The advice of the Spirit of Napoleon about the campaign on land seemed
to me, if possible, of lower value than that of Nelson on the campaign
at sea. It is hardly conceivable that Napoleon has forgotten where the
Marne is. But it may have changed since his day. At any rate, he says
that, if ever the Russians cross the Marne, all is over. Coming from
such a master-strategist, this ought to be attended to.

Franklin, on being asked whether the United States had done right in
going into the war, said "Yes"; asked whether the country could with
honour have stayed out, he said "No." There is guidance here for
thinking men of all ranks.

Lincoln is very happy where he is. So, too, I was amazed to find, is
Disraeli. In fact, it was most gratifying to learn that all of the great
spirits consulted are very happy, and want everybody to know how happy
they are. Where they are, I may say, it is all bright and beautiful.

Fear of trespassing on their time prevented me from questioning each of
them up to the full limit of the period contracted for.

I understand that I have still to my credit at the agency five minutes'
talk with Napoleon, available at any time, and similarly five minutes
each with Franklin and Washington, to say nothing of ten minutes'
unexpired time with Great-grandfather.

All of these opportunities I am willing to dispose of at a reduced rate
to anyone still sceptical of the reality of the spirit world.

V. The Sorrows of a Summer Guest

Let me admit, as I start to write, that the whole thing is my own fault.
I should never have come. I knew better. I have known better for years.
I have known that it is sheer madness to go and pay visits in other
people's houses.

Yet in a moment of insanity I have let myself in for it and here I am.
There is no hope, no outlet now till the first of September when my
visit is to terminate. Either that or death. I do not greatly care
which.

I write this, where no human eye can see me, down by the pond--they call
it the lake--at the foot of Beverly-Jones's estate. It is six o'clock
in the morning. No one is up. For a brief hour or so there is peace.
But presently Miss Larkspur--the jolly English girl who arrived last
week--will throw open her casement window and call across the lawn,
"Hullo everybody! What a ripping morning!" And young Poppleson will call
back in a Swiss yodel from somewhere in the shrubbery, and Beverly-Jones
will appear on th