H. asked, “Do you mind my being here?” “Excellent portent.” I asked why. “Intellectual interest.” H. said, “You mean that you are glad to have intelligent people interested?” “Yes.” When we were talking about H.’s interest, it wrote, “Tell others.” This was repeated several times. “I am a missionary,” came as clearly as I have written it here. We asked if she meant a missionary from that life to this. “Yes.” At the end she again urged H. to tell others. I laughed, saying, “Tell as many others as you like about the experience, but don’t tell too many that it came through me.” “Sorry.” “Sorry that I am unwilling to be overwhelmed by a flood of curiosity and hysteria?” “Sorrow.” I said I would be glad to help people in sorrow. “Sorrowful people suffer.” Isn’t that like Mary Kendal? When H. was leaving, it wrote: “Good night. Tell others.” After she had gone I went back, and got another movement entirely. “Frederick?” “Yes.” He seems to have more difficulty in writing than she does. Is very clear at first, but becomes illegible sooner. “Do you know that your mother is coming?” “Yes.... Wish to make her at peace.” I said I wished to make her at peace, too, and would do all I could, and he wrote, “Thank you.” * * * * * As has been said, Cass had been ill, and his improvement after going to Atlantic City had not been as rapid as we had hoped it might be. A letter received from him on Tuesday reported a slight relapse, and promised a telegram on Wednesday. It had been arranged that I should join him if he needed me. _From a letter dated Wednesday evening, March 6th:_ Your letter and wire both came after four, though the letters usually arrive with the first mail in the morning. I was getting a little anxious. Went to planchette and asked Mary Kendal whether she knew anything about you. She said you were better to-day and that a letter was coming, but that I must go to Atlantic City.[6] Frederick also came, seeming very anxious lest the meeting with his mother fail. Wrote “message” several times, and by dint of some questioning I found it was not a message he wished to send, but one he wished me to send to her about coming at once. Wrote of her “mental anguish,” an expression I never should have used myself, and wanted her to join me at Atlantic City. Knew nothing about you, but was keen to meet her. Later, he seemed to go, and Mary Kendal wrote a little. Then came something very hard to get. Over and over we tried. “Com ... come ... comf ... comp....” I suggested various words. Always the answer was “No.” Finally, very clearly and slowly, “Comfort dear Mother.” After the M of the last word I expected Manse, as I thought Mary was still writing. When it proved to be “Mother,” I said, “Is this Frederick?” “Yes.” I promised again to do all I could. He wrote, “Thank you,” and went.