In 1867, Miss G., aged eighteen, died suddenly of cholera in St.Louis. In 1876 a brother, F. G., who was much attached to her, haddone a good day's business in St. Joseph. He was sending in hisorders to his employers (he is a commercial traveller) and was smokinga cigar, when he became conscious that some one was sitting on hisleft, with one arm on the table. It was his dead sister. He sprangup to embrace her (for even on meeting a stranger whom we take for adead friend, we never realise the impossibility in the half moment ofsurprise) but she was gone. Mr. G. stood there, the ink wet on hispen, the cigar lighted in his hand, the name of his sister on hislips. He had noted her expression, features, dress, the kindness ofher eyes, the glow of the complexion, and what he had never seenbefore, _a bright red scratch on the right side of her face_.Mr. G. took the next train home to St. Louis, and told the story tohis parents. His father was inclined to ridicule him, but his mothernearly fainted. When she could control herself, she said that,unknown to any one, she had accidentally scratched the face of thedead, apparently with the pin of her brooch, while arranging somethingabout the corpse. She had obliterated the scratch with powder, andhad kept the fact to herself. "She told me she _knew_ at least that Ihad seen my sister." A few weeks later Mrs. G. died. {75}Here the information existed in one living mind, the mother's, and ifthere is any "mental telegraphy," may thence have been conveyed to Mr.
