y as to condemn something you know little or nothing about,"
Mr. Crane said, in his serious, kindly way. "My dear Carlotta, even
though you don't 'believe in' the supernatural, do try to realize that
your lack of belief doesn't bar the rest of us from having faith in
revelation."

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Crane," Carly wasn't a bit offended, "don't
mind me! Believe all you want to. But, do you believe in this 'Gypsy's
Warning' about Peter? That's different, you know, from the usual
claptrap."

"It's not exactly a question of belief," Mr. Crane said, slowly. "You
will, I am sure, agree that Peter may be killed on some of these wild
and dangerous adventures in which his soul delights. Let us hope the
day is far off, if it must come at all. And as to his spirit's
return,--that is, of course, possible,--to my mind, at least."

"If possible, then extremely probable," declared Peter, laughing; "I've
just told the girls, Dad, that I'll haunt them like a continuous
performance, if conditions allow. Want me to appear to you, too?"

"Don't be so flippant, Son. If you die while away from us, and if your
spirit can return and communicate with me, I shall, indeed, be glad to
receive such messages, no matter through what medium."

"Oh, goodness, gracious!" exclaimed Carlotta; "not through a medium, I
beg of you, Peter! I don't want spook messages that way! I don't mind a
nice little Ouija or Planchette, but a common, blowsy, untidy medium
person,--and they're all like that,--I can't stand for!"

"Why, you little rascal, what do _you_ know about mediums?" Peter Boots
frowned at her.

"I went to a _seance_ once,--but, wow! never again!"

"I should hope not! You stay away from such places, or I won't come home
to you at all,--dead or alive! How would you like that?"

"Not at all, oh, despot, oligarch, Grand Panjandrum,--or whatever you
call yourself. Please come back, and all will be forgiven."

It was tea time in the Crane home, and though the home was only a summer
cottage, up Westchester way, yet the big living room, with its
hospitable easy chairs and occasional tables, its willow and chintz,
gave an impression of an English household. It was late in July and,
though warm, it was not sultry, and the breeze coming in at the big
windows was crisp and fresh.

Mrs. Crane drifted into the room almost at the same moment two men
appeared from outdoors.

A happy complacency was the chief attribute of Peter's mother, and this