“Do you know, I have often felt that too,” said Josephine, “as if some masterful personality helped me—a peculiar inspiration directed my hand, guided it rapidly, and resolutely, to unerring achievement and success!”
Her sister looked at her with an air of grave surprise. “I wonder if this could be so?” she murmured.
The pen in Josephine’s fingers suddenly wrote on the margin of her work the words:
“Yes, it is so.”
She stared at the sentence in fascinated silence, then turning hastily about, said:
“Oh, Rose, do come and see what the pen has just written of itself! What can it mean? I declare on my honour I did not originate this.”
“I see.... I believe it is what is called automatic writing,” said Rose, after a significant pause. “I have heard of it. Do try if it will write more. See, here is a sheet of clean paper—now write a question.”
“Do you help my sister?” Josephine wrote obediently.
“Yes, and yourself,” came the reply.
“We are most grateful to you. Were you a great artist?”