[The sitting referred to here, as having been held by a lady and gentleman last Monday, refers to my colleague and his wife and their deceased son Christopher. Their identity had been completely masked by the arrangements they had made, without my knowledge. The letters making arrangements were sent round by Darlington to be posted, in order to cover up tracks and remove all chance of a discoverable connexion with me. (See p. 240.) Hence it is interesting that Raymond turned up to help, for in their normal life the two youths had known each other.] He has been trying to help you since he saw you here last time. He thought that you knew that he was. He did try hard. He says, I helped you in such a funny way. I got near you and felt such a desire to help you and prevent you from getting tired. He was concentrating on the back of your head, and sort of saying to himself, and impressing the thought towards you: "It's coming easy, you shan't get tired, the brain is going to be very receptive, everything is going to flow through it easily in order." I feel myself saying it all the time, and I get so close I nearly lean on you. To my great delight, I saw you sit up once, and you said: "Ah, that's good." It was some little time back. O. J. L.--I speak to your photograph sometimes. Yes. I can speak to you without a photograph! I am often with you, very often. He's taking Feda into a room with a desk in it; too big for a desk, it must be a table. A sort of a desk, a pretty big one. A chair is in front of it, not a chair like that, a high up chair, more wooden, not woolly stuff; and the light is falling on to the desk; and you are sitting there with a pen or pencil in your hand; you aren't writing much, but you are looking through writing, and making bits of writing on it; you are not doing all the writing yourself, but only bits on it. Raymond is standing at the back of you; he isn't looking at what you are doing. [The description is correct.] He thought you were tired out last time you came here. He knows you are sometimes. He's been wanting to say to you, "Leave some of it." O. J. L.--But there's so much to be done. Yes, he knows it isn't easy to leave it. But it would be better in the end if you can leave a bit, father. You are doing too much. You know that I am longing and dying for the day when you come over to me. It will be a splendid day for me. But I mustn't be selfish. I have got to work to keep you away from us, and that's not easy for me. He says that lots over here talk, and say that you will be doing the most wonderful work of your life through the war. People are ready to listen now. They had too many things before to let them think about them; but now it's the great thing to think about the after-life.