I asked if there were any message, and it wrote, “Mon ...,” trailing off into a series of waves, a good many times. I guessed Monday ... money ... Mons ..., but always the answer was, “No.” Finally it wrote “man” very clearly. I could not get more for quite a while. Finally came, “Many thanks.” “Thanks for what?” “For knowing.” I asked if Frederick or Anne were there. “No.” “Any message?” “Yes.” “For whom?” “Broth ...,” trailing off again. This several times. “Brother?” “Yes.” “Where?” “Albany.” “His name?” “James.” “James M——?” “No.” This was confusing. “Where?” Beginning apparently with U, the writing trailed off. Finally made out “United ...,” but no more. Then I remembered that Mary K.’s only brother was killed in an accident, years before she went over herself. I said so, and the thing began making loops. That used to be planchette’s way of laughing at me. “Why did you say that?” “Joke.” This was not at all like Mary K. She had a fine mind and was not given to buffoonery. I have since thought that she might have been trying to get over a message to some other person’s brother.[2] “... Can you get word from Frederick Gaylord?” “Yes.”[3] “Will you come again?” “Yes.” “Have you been trying all these years to get into touch with me?” “No.” “Will you help me make a bridge between those on your side and those here?” “No.” Then immediately it went back and wrote, “Yes,” over the “No.” Very curious. After a long pause, I said I would go to bed, if there were nothing more, and it wrote, quickly, “Go.” I said, “Good night.” “Good night. God bless you.” I asked again if this were Mary K., and got the same quick “Yes.” Then I put planchette away and came out to my room. It was one o’clock. Three before I went to sleep. Can you imagine anything more weird than my sitting here alone in the middle of the night, with that thing fairly racing under my fingers part of the time, insisting it was nobody I expected? Claiming to be a very dear old friend, but the last I should expect under the circumstances. It was certainly queer, but I am very sure something outside of myself was doing it. I shall try again to-night. _From a letter dated Monday evening, March 4th_: I have just had another amazing try at planchette. This time it was Mary Kendal, writing one word at a time. “Let ... Manse[4] ... know ... I ... am ... here....” She gave me several intimate messages for him, and when I finally said I would write and ask him to come, so she could tell him herself, she wrote, “Yes ... yes ... yes,” very quickly. What do you make of this? Isn’t it the queerest thing you ever heard of? In the midst of her talk, another hand took hold, very brisk and energetic. “Not Mary?” “No.” “Perhaps Frederick?” “Yes.” “Message?” “Yes. Mother.” “Anything more?” “Happy.” “More yet?” “Only love.”