The message had not been written after the manner of the previous one, for there was no scratching or sound of the movement of the pencil. In fact, as they soon discovered, the pencil was not there at all. The method, whatever it may have been, was instantaneous, like telegraphy. A few seconds of vibration in the slate and lo! it was there. If thought could be photographed the process might be like this. It was as though some one had thought the message, and the mere act of thinking had made it visible on the slate. “Chriss, you are the most wonderful being in the world,” said Cartice, reverently, “and you don’t know it. You have all the occult gifts, yet value none of them.” The Butterfly flushed with gratification at the generous praise of her friend who usually praised or blamed with miserly care. Beyond the fact that they made her important in Cartice’s eyes she cared nothing for the mysteries revealed through her. Being a butterfly, she was not afflicted with any particular craving for knowledge. The world and the things of the world satisfied her. This was what the slate contained: “To you, Cartice Hill Doring, I bring this message. Remember it well, for I may never come again: Till the soil, and you will be prosperous. Till what you have. Make more of your talents. Concentrate all your thoughts and devote more time to your special one. If you are really anxious to make a success of yourself, you must use every moment. You not only owe it to yourself, but to the whole world, and God, who has endowed you with this wonderful gift. You are a woman among a million. It is certainly a wonderful gift you possess, and it is sad that you have not already made more of it. So try now. Wait not for some one to open the way. Make your own way. You can do it better than any one else. Work in order to be great; then you can rest, and it will be so delightful to rest with sweet laurels.” Mrs. Doring read this aloud, astonished at its flattering import and amazed that so many words, all as legible as the clearest typography, could be put upon the tiny slate. The writing was a work of the most exquisite art. “What does she mean by your special talent?” asked Chrissalyn.