as he took his seat and laid the strip on his table before him, I rose and approached his table, so as to keep my paper still in sight; the row of books entirely intercepted my view of it.  The Medium instantly motioned to me to return to my seat, and, I think, told me to do so.  I obeyed, and as I did so could not repress a profound sigh.  Why had no one ever told me of that row of books?  The Medium did not sit in statue-like repose, but moved his body much, and his arms frequently; his hands I could not see, hidden as they were, behind the row of books.  After a minute or two the Medium looked up and said, ’I don’t know whether I can get any communication from this Spirit,’ a remark which a long experience with Slate-Writing Mediums has taught me to regard as a highly favorable omen, and as an indication that they have read the question and are now about to begin the little game, in which I always take much interest, of experiencing great difficulty in obtaining the ‘rapport,’ as they term it.  Dr. Mansfield frowned, shook his head and assumed an air of great doubt and perplexity.  I was certain that there would be now an ostentatious display of the strip of paper, and sure enough, in a minute more the Medium, strip in hand, came over to my table, and shook his head ominously.  He placed his left hand on the portion of the strip containing my question, and began tapping on it with his forefinger.  ‘Pray, tell me,’ I said, ’is that motion of your forefinger voluntary or involuntary?’ ’It’s my telegraph to ’em,’ he replied, ’getting ’em to come.’  ‘I don’t want to weary you,’ I rejoined, ’but if that tapping will bring them, do keep it up!  I cannot tell you how anxious I am to hear from this Spirit.’  He paused, and then made some marks, like cabalistic signs, which are still to be seen on the paper.  Then the tapping was resumed.  Then more cabalistic signs were made.  At last he said, ’Put your left foot against mine, and your left knee against mine, and hook your forefinger into mine, and pull hard.’  I did so.  ‘Stop,’ he cried, ‘is it Maria?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ’that’s it, she is called “Marie.”  It’s Marie!’ ‘I have to go by the sound,’ he rejoined.  We then pulled forefingers again.  ‘Stop,’ he cried, ’is there a “Saint” about it?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered, ’St. is the first part of the next name!  I have so longed to have her come to me.’  Dr. Mansfield arose, gathered up the strip and returned to his table.  I could go now unopposed and stand by him while he wrote the following:  ’I am with you my dear Bro but too xcited to speak for a moment have patience brother and I will do the best I can do to control.  Your sister

Marie St. Clair.’