One of these new friends called himself Moreau and won their hearts completely with his courteous speech, kind instincts and gentle manners. Indeed, after making his acquaintance they understood how little the personality depends upon that which we call the person, which is but a mask, as the word originally meant. He came often and sometimes remained a whole evening, kindly writing for those who had not yet learned to manipulate Planchette, and answering questions with well-bred patience and never-failing politeness. When asked why he came to them and remained so faithful, when he had not known them here, he explained that he was attracted to both of them, because they were magnetic to him; but that beside, it was his especial mission to make lonely women happier. They learned to rely implicitly upon everything he said, just as they did on the word of Prescott, whose strict truthfulness had been his one vanity. “How long is the act of dying?” Moreau was asked. “It is longer for some than for others; but you are sleeping at the time and know it not.” This statement was corroborated by the others. They said the death-sleep in some cases was of several days’ duration,--days as we reckon them here, but there Time’s markings are unknown, for Time is not. When Moreau was asked whether he knew everything about his friends here, present and to come, he said: “Not everything. There are some things we are not permitted to know any more than you are.” “Do you pass on into other stages of existence--experience a change analogous to our dying here?” “I think so; but I am no more certain of that than you are about your future state.” “How do you travel?” “Like lightning, or even more swiftly. We think of a place and in the same instant we are there. This is a thought world. So is yours, but you are blind to the power of thought on your plane.” “Are you affected by the sorrows and pains of those you love, who are still on earth?” “We cannot help feeling the troubles of earth when they touch what you would call our heart-strings. But, as it were, we see with larger eyes--we understand better the purpose of suffering and the good that comes out of it.” A friend to Cartice who had achieved considerable eminence as an analytical author, came occasionally. In the noonday of success she went away, after months of great physical suffering. When asked whether she was happy, she replied: “It is happiness to me to have no aching heart, no pain, no burning brow.” “Can you come to us when you please?” “Sometimes only, not always. I feel a restraint, though no restraint seems put upon me.” “How do you occupy yourself, Edith?” “We do not have to occupy ourselves. We are occupied by others only. I cannot tell you better.” When questioned as to the kind of clothing used there, she said: “The mist of earth is not a substance to be measured, weighed or worn by you. The material of our raiment is a thing of almost misty texture.” “What is death?”