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“And do you believe in the spirituous knockings?”
asked Mrs. Partington, as she leaned forward over the
table, and bent her eyes on a queer individual who had
related some wonderful things he had seen. “O, I
would so like to have poor Paul come back!”

A gentle rapping upon the old chest in the corner
attracted their attention, and the whole of them immediately
surrounded it.

“If it 's Paul's apprehension,” said Mrs. Partington,
“I know he 'll answer me. Paul, is that you?”

Knock.

“Just like him,” said she, smiling, “when he was
living; he was always tapping when we had anything in
the house to tap, did n't you, Paul?”

Knock.

“Can't you speak to me?”

Knock.

“Does that mean yes or no?”

Knock.

“Which does it mean?”

Knock.

Some of the party suggested that the alphabet should
be called, which was done.

“Are you in want of anything?” said she.

Knock.

“What is it?”

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And the anxious spectators, through the medium of
the alphabet, spelled out “S-i-d-u-r.”

“It is Paul!” cried the old lady, delightedly; “that 's
the way he always spelled it. Do you want me to come
to you, Paul?”

The answer came back, “No, I 'm in better company!”

The old lady turned away mournfully. There was
sorrow in the wavy lock of gray that straggled beneath
her cap border, — there was a quaver of grief in the tone
that inquired for the scissors, — there was a misty vapor
upon her specs, like the dew upon the leaves after a rain,—
the cap-border, like a flag at half-mast, trailed in woe
over the ruin of disappointed affection. At that instant
the cover of the chest opened, and the head of Ike, protruding,
disclosed the secret of the knockings.

“Ah, you rogue!” said she, a smile dispelling all
evidence of disorder, “Ah, you rogue! was it you? You 'll
never be a good spirit as long as you live, I 'm afraid, if
you go on so. But I knowed it was n't Paul!”

There was triumph in her tone, and it seemed as if a
whole basket full of sunshine had been upset in that
room, it was so pleasant all the rest of the evening.