The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-07-14

about in that way?"
 sI see no objection. Such journeys are made continually by professional
 people. You and l are professionals. Godfrey has confined you absolutely to me for the last two years." She
 shook her head. "I do not think" I continued, "that he would hesitate for
 one moment to give his consent"
 "Mr. Carruthers," she broke out
 passionately, "do not say such thing.
 You do not understand Godfrey. You misjudge him. will not leave him
 nor will I believe one of the cruel
 things people say of him."
 She left me abruptly, and from that day there was great change in her and, though I carefully avoided all reference to the sore subject, she be- came 80 depressed that several times she was unable to keep engagements
 we had made.
 k l began to wonder if she had spoken of my proposal to her husband, and
 had been mortally wou1 11ed by the coolness with which De certainly would have heard it. ~
 At last I resolved to fix the date of my departure, and, in anticipation of it, a great farewell seance was ar- ranged at the house of one of my most enthusiastic disciples. When the evening came, Felicia, who form erly had been the soul of punctuality, kept me waiting for some time. I began to fear that this, our last ap- pearance, was to be a fiasco. She ar- rived at last, looking even more pale and i'll than usual, besides which her face had fixed, half unconscious ex- pression, as if she were already partly under magnetic influence. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her, and I could see that she held some- thing between them. Her appearance altogether made me so uneasy that was more than half disposed to seek 8 medium among my audience, as I had formerly been accustomed to do. My host, however, was most anxious that his guests should not be disappointed by the substitution of any one for my we'll known wonderful medium, and Felicia, herself, when I questioned her, refused to admit that she was suffering.
 She seated herself in front of the as- and I made the necessary passes; but my usually abnormally medium sat with eyes fixed on space, and hands still clasped to- gether, apparently untouched by the familiar force. felt reluctant to persist in the attempt, and was on the point of giving up when suddenly her eyes met mine. A flutter passed quickly over her features, and I saw that her will had returned to her us- ually submissive attitude. put my first question to her. She began to speak, but her answer died away after few words; her eyelids closed and her head sank forward. A horri- ble misgiving came over me. I hast lily made the passes necessary to re- lease her from the trance; but to these she remained still more insensible than to the commencement of my at- tempt to bring the trance about. I went to her and took her hands. They lay in mine inert and nerveless. I lifted her sunken eyelids. My heart gave a sickening bound, and then stood still. raised her in my arms and carried her out of the gaze of those careless, curious eyes; but not with any hope of restoring conscious ness to her. I had seen enough to know that Felicia Cowper would never return again to the sadness and weariness of her lonely existence among us.
 I dare say many people can remem- Der the indignant outcry of the public when her sudden and tragical death was made known. Unsparing blame was showered on me, who, as people said, had mercilessly overworked a woman too much under my influence to be able to resist my will. There was even some talk, among a few ardent philanthropists, of getting up B public prosecution.
 For Felicia's own sake, however so that these sorrows which she had borne so bravely might remain sacred secrets-I attempted no justification of myself; for in justifying myself I should have had to publish the con- tents of the letter which I took from her dead hands, and which knew had been her death blow. It was in her husbands handwriting, and ran thus:
 "I am about to take a step, Felicia, which I have long meditated. am about to leave forever an environment which has long been more than irk- some to me. Our foolish, basty mar riage is, as you know, the great regret of my life. This regret I believe you share; but whether you share it or not, am sure you will not wonder that at last shake myself free from the outward semhlance of bond which has long ceased to exist. In all our paths will never again Crose Tnr 1ao va Euwiou1 to nswht f~