“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.”