her with a message for me."

"_Cheek!_" I exclaimed.

"Well, I'm afraid that's rather the way I felt about it, though probably
Opal meant well, and a lot of people think she's wonderful. Several
friends begged me in urgent letters to go to Opal Fawcett: assured me
she'd given them indescribable comfort, put them in touch with those
they loved who'd 'passed on.' But somehow I couldn't be persuaded,
Princess. A voice inside me always used to say: 'Why should June want to
talk to you through Opal Fawcett? If she can come back, why shouldn't
she speak with you direct, instead of through a third person?'"

"That's how I should have argued it out in your place," I agreed.
"And--and June never----?"

"No. She never came, never made me realize her near presence, never
seemed to influence me in favour of Opal--though Opal didn't give up
till months had passed. When she first came after writing to say she
must see me, it was to beg me to visit her for _June's sake_. Afterward,
when she saw she was making me uncomfortable, she stopped her
persuasions. Since then--fairly often when Joyce Arnold was here--she
has turned up at the cottage: sometimes just for a friendly chat like an
ordinary human being (though I never feel she is one), sometimes to
discuss that 'psychic play'--as she calls it--an idea of hers she wants
me to work out for the stage."

"Is it a good idea?" I wanted to know.

"Yes. Mysterious and dramatic at the same time. Yet I've always made
excuses. I don't fancy collaborating with Miss Fawcett, though that may
sound ungrateful."

It didn't, to my ears, especially as Opal's object seemed transparent as
the depths of her own crystal. Of course she was still in love with
Robert, and had seized first one chance, then another, of getting into
touch with him. I was rather sorry for her, in a vague, impersonal way;
for to love Robert Lorillard and lose him would hurt. I could realize
that, without the trouble and pain of being seriously in love with him
myself.

"It's a good thing," I thought, "that Joyce Arnold's stopping with me at
this time and not with Opal Fawcett! It would be as much as the girl's
life is worth to be engaged to Robert in _that_ house!"

Could Opal suspect, I wondered, the truth about the broken love story?
Somehow I thought not. I might be mistaken, but the rather patronizing
way in which she'd spoken of Joyce didn't seem like that of a jealous
woman. If Joyce and she had got upon each ot