something that--it's very hard for me to speak
of this, but--I want to tell it. I have a feeling that if I tell it I
may save myself and someone who is dear to me," she looked down in
embarrassment, "from--from a terrible danger. I feel more deeply about
this because--some of you remember a strange thing that happened four
years ago when I was present at a meeting of this club."

There were murmurs and nods of understanding from several of the guests
who settled themselves into positions of expectant attention.

"Are we to have a second prophecy, Mrs. Walters?" inquired Kendall Brown
briskly of Seraphine, whose haunting eyes kept Penelope in loving
watchfulness; but the medium made no reply.

"The second prophecy has already been made, Kendall," Mrs. Wells
answered gravely. "I have come here tonight knowing that a disaster may
result from my presence. Seraphine says that a disaster will result,
but--I don't believe it. I can't believe it. What harm is there in my
coming to this party?"

She spoke vehemently with increasing agitation and the guests watched
her with fascinated interest.

"A disaster? Tonight? Extraordinary! What kind of a disaster?"

Such were the questions and exclamations called forth by this startling
announcement, and incredulous glances were addressed to the psychic; but
Seraphine offered no enlightenment. She merely rocked placidly in her
chair.

"Go on, dear," she said.

And Penelope continued:

"You know I have been ill since I came back from France. There are
symptoms in my illness that are--peculiar--distressing. I have horrible
fears that I have to fight all the time. Horrible dreams, one dream in
particular lately of a thing that happened on a Fall River steamboat."

"A thing that really happened?" questioned a little gray-haired woman.

"Yes, it really happened to me during a trip that I made on this boat;
and now, years later, it continues to happen in my dreams. It terrifies
me, tortures me, for the thing was--it was something wrong that I did.
I--I suppose it was a sin."

A sin!

There was a tremor in her voice, a pathetic catch in her breath, almost
a sob, as she forced herself to speak these words; then bravely,
pleadingly, she lifted her eyes to her beloved.

Over the gay company there came a surprised and sympathetic hush.
Herrick straightened awkwardly, but never flinched in his loyalty or
fondness--what an ordeal for a lover!--while Penelope paused as if
gathering s