After luncheon we went out for a walk, and then to our respective rooms to rest, the morning having been fatiguing in its emotional strain. Planchette and paper had been left in Mrs. Gaylord’s room, and in the afternoon, while Cass and I were still alone, I picked up a lead-pencil and placed its point on a sheet of letter-paper, expecting no response. To my great surprise, I was conscious almost instantly of its vitality. The sensation is comparable to that of holding a quiet, live bird, wrapped in a handkerchief, its energy muffled but palpable. Sometimes this sensation of a current from without is communicated to the hand and arm, sometimes only to the fingers. In a short time the pencil moved, writing, “Mary Kendal,” followed by the usual messages for Manse. Cass asked whether it annoyed them to be questioned, or interfered with things they might wish to tell us. “No, it does not interfere. We are here to tell you what we can, but we cannot tell everything.... You have the right to know what we can tell you.... You are getting nearer the big things every day.” This made Cass wonder whether “the big things” would come to us in this life or the next, and she added: “Both. You begin there and keep on growing. As soon as you are ready, big truths are shown to you.” Addressing me, he made some allusion to what “she” had said, suggesting that it seemed to support a theory he had once held, that this world is one of elimination. “No, it is one of growth,” was her answer. “And ‘she’ is trying to tell you that growth begins there and does not stop. It goes on and on, as long as you are worthy.” “Then unworthiness kills?” “It does not kill. It defers.” Weeks afterward, it was interesting to turn back to these early pages of the record and find how much of the wide significance of later revelations had been foreshadowed from the first. “Are you as eager for this communication as we are?” “We are more eager, because we know how much it means. We know that more truth can be taught this way than any other.” Cass turned to Mrs. Gaylord, who had rejoined us, saying that this seemed to imply that they were our superiors. “No, we are your elders,” said Mary Kendal. As has generally been the case during these interviews, we were talking among ourselves, frequently going on with our conversation while the pencil wrote. Some one wondered how or why they had time or desire to leave their presumably more important work to talk to us. “Because we are all humans, after all,” Mary responded, “and it is our work to help, just as it is yours. Many people do not want to help, here or there.... This life is just a continuation of yours under happier conditions.” “Are you happier there than you were here, Mary?” “Yes, except for Manse.” Mrs. Gaylord asked whether a man who had loved books, and had always kept himself surrounded by them in this life, would find that interest there. “No,” Mary said, “but we have its equivalent interest.”