It was Mansfield Kendal himself who ultimately arrived at a possible explanation of some of these apparent inaccuracies, Mary having explained others meanwhile. But at the time it was all very contradictory and confusing, and after dinner Cass demanded an explanation. Mary Kendal came at once, admitting that she had been wrong in saying that Mansfield was at the club, and asserting that she “thought he would be.” “Didn’t you know?” “No.” Again the messages are confused and fragmentary. “You must not doubt.... He will be there soon ...” are among those now decipherable, each many times repeated. She seemed profoundly distressed. To ease the tension, Cass made a little joke, eliciting no response from her, whereupon he asked whether they retained a sense of humor over there. “Yes, but this is no time for humor.... I am so afraid of missing Manse.” Again she urged me to write to him, but I refused, reminding her that I had made every possible advance until some reply to my letters should be received. “Yes, I know, but it means so much! You will help, won’t you?” Knowing nothing then of the tremendous forces of attraction and repulsion unconsciously put into operation by persons ignorant of their existence, and assuming—not unnaturally—that she must be able to learn at least as much about Mansfield’s whereabouts and condition as both she and Frederick evidently knew about ours, I was unable to understand, even dimly, the contradictions of the present situation, and the cloud of it hung over me all that evening and the next day. I was oppressed by a sense of my responsibility in conveying messages from sources seeming suddenly so uncertain. Following Mary, Frederick came again, his buoyancy undiminished. “Mother dearest,” he began, without question, “Mrs. Kendal is true. She is a fine force.” I rather held back on this, and the writing was angular and unyielding. “There are things we cannot explain.” “You have too little faith. Mary Kendal.” This statement was made without preliminary comment, and until she signed her name I thought Frederick was writing. I reminded her that she had made it impossible for me to trust her wholly. “I am sorry I shook your faith,” she said. “I welcome you to this relation, and want you to believe.” “Mother dearest, you know I am here, don’t you?” Again Frederick made his own interrogation point. “Because I am, and you will feel my presence more and more clearly as time goes on.” “Do you know all that we want to know?” Cass inquired. “Not all you want to know. We know more than you do, and will tell you all we can, as soon as you are ready for it.” We were uncertain whether this meant mentally and spiritually ready, or that we must learn the conditions through which they can best reach us, and he explained. “We can tell you anything you are prepared to understand, and the more you learn there the better you will do your work here.”