arn. I, for one, am
thankful to think that there are wiser heads than mine puzzling over the
problem of our psychic powers. I've always taken impressions from
inanimate objects, and it has bothered me. Now I find my sensations
analyzed and classified under the head of Psychometry, and it is a
comfort to know that other people besides myself can discern an _aura_,
and are foolishly wise enough to trust the impressions they receive in
that way."

"But if I were you, I don't think I'd make a parlor entertainment out of
the gift,--if it is a gift,--as I heard you did at the Wades' the other
night."

"Who told you? What have you heard?"

"Newspaper men hear everything. You asked Mr. Saxon to hold his
handkerchief pressed tightly in his hand for a few minutes, and then to
give it to you. You shut your eyes as you held it, and received the
impression of his 'aura,' or the atmosphere which surrounds him, or
whatever you like to call it, and then the company asked you questions,
and you gave him a great old character. He didn't like it a bit, nor did
his wife, nor his mother-in-law. You'll make enemies for yourself if you
don't watch out."

"It _was_ wrong of me to exercise my powers just to gratify idle
curiosity. No good Theosophist would approve of it."

"Say, rather, 'no sensible person would.' The Theosophists haven't a
monopoly of common sense. To me they appear slightly deficient in that
article, but I dare say they make up for it in uncommon sense."

"You speak more wisely than you know," said Belle solemnly. "If I hadn't
taken in some of the Brotherhood ideas I wonder where that pretty,
innocent young girl would have been by this time. Would you like me to
go back and be as I was in the old days, a rank materialist, caring for
nothing but dress, dancing, and having a good time? You know you
wouldn't, David. You know as well as I do that Theosophy has been the
making of me, and through me it shall be the making of Mary too."

CHAPTER III.

TO the Scotchman or Englishman, with Loch Katrine or Windermere in his
fond memory's eye, it is not surprising that the great lakes of America
seem howling wildernesses of water, for the shores are mostly low and
unpicturesque. There is no changing tide to give variety, no strong
smell of seaweed nor salt breeze to brace the wearied nerves, but the
wearied nerves are braced nevertheless. The sand is soft and clean to
extend one's length upon, and the waves forever rol