"Spiritualism--queer word, when the more they manifest the more they

prove that they've got hold of matter."

"How?" said Holly.

"Why! Look at their photographs of auric presences. You must have

something material for light and shade to fall on before you can take

a photograph. No, it'll end in our calling all matter spirit, or all

spirit matter--I don't know which."

"But don't you believe in survival, Dad?"

Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face impressed

her deeply.

"Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death. I've been

looking into it a bit. But for the life of me I can't find anything that

telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the storehouse of

this world can't account for just as well. Wish I could! Wishes father

thought but they don't breed evidence." Holly had pressed her lips again

to his forehead with the feeling that it confirmed his theory that all

matter was becoming spirit--his brow felt, somehow, so insubstantial.

But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching,

unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. It

was--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost as

it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light fell

on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her

dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the letter

was pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as from a vision of

perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice.

When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either

hand, she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little like

Jolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less

formal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no hat;

altogether a very interesting "little" brother!

His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance in

the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him home,

instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They hadn't a car

at Robin Hill since the War, of course, and he had only driven once, and

landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. His laugh, soft

and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, she had heard,

was now quite old-fashioned. When they reached the house he pulled out

a crumpled letter which she read while he was washing--a quite short

letter, which must have cost her father many a pang to write.

"MY DEAR,

"You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of family

history. His mother and I think he is too young at present. The boy is

very dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus,




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