“Sometimes you suggest things to me and I say them,” he returned. “Sometimes I don’t.” This reassured me somewhat, for I had frequently noticed that a thought strongly in my mind seemed to delay the pencil, yet was not written. Returning for a moment to the discussion of politics, Cass asked: “By reason of our different environment, am I not more interested in large details, and you in large movements?” “There can be no real movement without a mass of detail. Here we are interested equally in both. They are inseparable.” “You said yesterday that the seed had been sown and the harvest not yet garnered. Has the seed generally been good seed?” “There is no telling how much of it will come up. There has been seed, good, bad, and indifferent, sown in all sorts of soil. The crop is not foreordained. We work and hope.” “Is there anything in this life to any degree a counterpart of what you have there?” his mother inquired. “Or is it something so wholly new that we can’t even imagine it?” “It is so much more expansive, so much more beautiful and free, that we can give you no conception of it.” “Perhaps it’s better that we shouldn’t know,” it was suggested; and Frederick’s reply seems to hold a hint of humor. “It might make you envious.” When I wondered what became of suicides, Cass said, “They probably get the purgatory he mentioned yesterday.” “That’s what they get; and it’s a long, hard road back to mental....” The pencil hesitated. After some efforts to write a word beginning with p or f—we were uncertain which—Mrs. Gaylord suggested, “Poise?” “... poise. Yes.” “Is there unconsciousness at first, when you go over?” she asked. “It depends on circumstances and persons. Sometimes there is a period of unconsciousness. I was conscious from the first moment, and so happy to be here.” When Cass interpreted this to mean that he greatly preferred being there, he corrected: “No, to be free. But for the first weeks I was dazed by the bigness of it.” Later in the afternoon Frederick discussed with his mother various personal matters, with a good deal of humor. Afterward, more seriously, he continued: “You’ll do better work, and be more open to suggestion from me, if you don’t dull yourself by too constant harping on one chord. Play a little, you and Dad.” She told him they had not been happy enough to play. “You will be happier now. Tell Dad few men are as near their sons as he is to me. He and all of you have only to learn to recognize me, when I am trying to tell you I am there.” We spoke of her desire to receive his communications through her own pencil and he said that if she would “keep on trying and believing,” he could talk directly to her before long, as he has since demonstrated. “It is difficult for us to overcome doubt in a messenger,” he said. “Faith is a positive force. It helps us reach you. Doubt, being negative, hampers us.” This reminded me of Mary Kendal’s first personal message to me, “Believe.”