MY SPIRIT CHILD.
The same year that John Powles died, 1860, I passed through the greatest
trouble of my life. It is quite unnecessary to my narrative to relate
what that trouble was, nor how it affected me, but I suffered terribly
both in mind and body, and it was chiefly for this reason that the
medical men advised my return to England, which I reached on the 14th of
December, and on the 30th of the same month a daughter was born to me,
who survived her birth for only ten days. The child was born with a most
peculiar blemish, which it is necessary for the purpose of my argument
to describe. On the left side of the upper lip was a mark as though a
semi-circular piece of flesh had been cut out by a bullet-mould, which
exposed part of the gum. The swallow also had been submerged in the
gullet, so that she had for the short period of her earthly existence to
be fed by artificial means, and the jaw itself had been so twisted that
could she have lived to cut her teeth, the double ones would have been
in front. This blemish was considered to be of so remarkable a type that
Dr. Frederick Butler of Winchester, who attended me, invited several
other medical men, from Southampton and other places, to examine the
infant with him, and they all agreed that _a similar case had never come
under their notice before_. This is a very important factor in my
narrative. I was closely catechized as to whether I had suffered any
physical or mental shock, that should account for the injury to my
child, and it was decided that the trouble I had experienced was
sufficient to produce it. The case, under feigned names, was fully
reported in the _Lancet_ as something quite out of the common way. My
little child, who was baptized by the name of "Florence," lingered until
the 10th of January, 1861, and then passed quietly away, and when my
first natural disappointment was over I ceased to think of her except as
of something which "might have been," but never would be again. In this
world of misery, the loss of an infant is soon swallowed up in more
active trouble. Still I never quite forgot my poor baby, perhaps because
at that time she was happily the "one dead lamb" of my little flock. In
recounting the events of my first _seance_ with Mrs. Holmes, I have
mentioned how a young girl much muffled up about the mouth and chin
appeared, and intimated that she came for me, although I could not
recognize her. I was so ignorant of the life beyond the grave at that
period, that it never struck me that the baby who had left me at ten
days old had been growing since our separation, until she had reached
the age of ten years. I could not interpret Longfellow (whom I consider
one of the sublimest spiritualists of the age) as I can now.
"Day after day we think what she is doing,
In those bright realms of air:
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
. . . . .
"Not as a child shall we again behold her:
For when, with rapture wild,
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden in her father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace.
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion,
Shall we behold her face!"
* * * * *
The first _seance_ made such an impression on my mind that two nights
afterwards I again presented myself (this time alone) at Mrs. Holmes'
rooms to attend another. It was a very different circle on the second
occasion. There were about thirty people present, all strangers to each
other, and the manifestations were proportionately ordinary. Another
professional medium, a Mrs. Davenport, was present, as one of her
controls, whom she called "Bell," had promised, if possible, to show her
face to her. As soon, therefore, as the first spirit face appeared
(which was that of the same little girl that I had seen before), Mrs.
Davenport exclaimed, "There's 'Bell,'" "Why!" I said, "that's the little
nun we saw on Monday." "O! no! that's my 'Bell,'" persisted Mrs.
Davenport. But Mrs. Holmes took my side, and was positive the spirit
came for me. She told me she had been trying to communicate with her
since the previous _seance_. "I know she is nearly connected with you,"
she said. "Have you never lost a relation of her age?" "_Never!_" I
replied; and at that declaration the little spirit moved away,
sorrowfully as before.
A few weeks after I received an invitation from Mr. Henry Dunphy (the
gentleman who had introduced me to Mrs. Holmes) to attend a private
_seance_, given at his own house in Upper Gloucester Place, by the
well-known medium Florence Cook. The double drawing-rooms were divided
by velvet curtains, behind which Miss Cook was seated in an arm-chair,
the curtains being pinned together half-way up, leaving a large aperture
in the shape of a V. Being a complete stranger to Miss Cook, I was
surprised to hear the voice of her control direct that _I_ should stand
by the curtains and hold the lower parts together whilst the forms
appeared above, lest the pins should give way, and necessarily from my
position I could hear every word that passed between Miss Cook and her
guide. The first face that showed itself was that of a man unknown to
me; then ensued a kind of frightened colloquy between the medium and her
control. "Take it away. Go away! I don't like you. Don't touch me--you
frighten me! Go away!" I heard Miss Cook exclaim, and then her guide's
voice interposed itself, "Don't be silly, Florrie. Don't be unkind. It
won't hurt you," etc., and immediately afterwards the same little girl I
had seen at Mrs. Holmes' rose to view at the aperture of the curtains,
muffled up as before, but smiling with her eyes at me. I directed the
attention of the company to her, calling her again my "little nun." I
was surprised, however, at the evident distaste Miss Cook had displayed
towards the spirit, and when the _seance_ was concluded and she had
regained her normal condition, I asked her if she could recall the faces
she saw under trance. "Sometimes," she replied. I told her of the
"little nun," and demanded the reason of her apparent dread of her. "I
can hardly tell you," said Miss Cook; "I don't know anything about her.
She is quite a stranger to me, but her face is not fully developed, I
think. There is _something wrong about her mouth_. She frightens me."
This remark, though made with the utmost carelessness, set me thinking,
and after I had returned home, I wrote to Miss Cook, asking her to
inquire of her guides _who_ the little spirit was.
She replied as follows:
"Dear Mrs. Ross-Church, I have asked 'Katie King,' but she cannot tell
me anything further about the spirit that came through me the other
evening than that she is a young girl closely connected with yourself."
I was not, however, yet convinced of the spirit's identity, although
"John Powles" constantly assured me that it _was_ my child. I tried hard
to communicate with her at home, but without success. I find in the
memoranda I kept of our private _seances_ at that period several
messages from "Powles" referring to "Florence." In one he says, "Your
child's want of power to communicate with you is not because she is too
pure, but because she is too weak. She will speak to you some day. She
is _not_ in heaven." This last assertion, knowing so little as I did of
a future state, both puzzled and grieved me. I could not believe that an
innocent infant was not in the Beatific Presence--yet I could not
understand what motive my friend could have in leading me astray. I had
yet to learn that once received into Heaven no spirit could return to
earth, and that a spirit may have a training to undergo, even though it
has never committed a mortal sin. A further proof, however, that my dead
child had never died was to reach me from a quarter where I least
expected it. I was editor of the magazine _London Society_ at that time,
and amongst my contributors was Dr. Keningale Cook, who had married
Mabel Collins, the now well-known writer of spiritualistic novels. One
day Dr. Cook brought me an invitation from his wife (whom I had never
met) to spend Saturday to Monday with them in their cottage at Redhill,
and I accepted it, knowing nothing of the proclivities of either of
them, and they knowing as little of my private history as I did of
theirs. And I must take this opportunity to observe that, at this
period, I had never made my lost child the subject of conversation even
with my most intimate friends. The memory of her life and death, and the
troubles that caused it, was not a happy one, and of no interest to any
but myself. So little, therefore, had it been discussed amongst us that
until "Florence" reappeared to revive the topic, my _elder children were
ignorant_ that their sister had been marked in any way differently from
themselves. It may, therefore, be supposed how unlikely it was that
utter strangers and public media should have gained any inkling of the
matter. I went down to Redhill, and as I was sitting with the Keningale
Cooks after dinner, the subject of Spiritualism came on the _tapis_, and
I was informed that the wife was a powerful trance medium, which much
interested me, as I had not, at that period, had any experience of her
particular class of mediumship. In the evening we "sat" together, and
Mrs. Cook having become entranced, her husband took shorthand notes of
her utterances. Several old friends of their family spoke through her,
and I was listening to them in the listless manner in which we hear the
conversation of strangers, when my attention was aroused by the medium
suddenly leaving her seat, and falling on her knees before me, kissing
my hands and face, and sobbing violently the while. I waited in
expectation of hearing who this might be, when the manifestations as
suddenly ceased, the medium returned to her seat, and the voice of one
of her guides said that the spirit was unable to speak through excess of
emotion, but would try again later in the evening. I had almost
forgotten the circumstance in listening to other communications, when I
was startled by hearing the word "_Mother!_" sighed rather than spoken.
I was about to make some excited reply, when the medium raised her hand
to enjoin silence, and the following communication was taken down by Mr.
Cook as she pronounced the words. The sentences in parentheses are my
replies to her.
"Mother! I am 'Florence.' I must be very quiet. I want to feel I have a
mother still. I am so lonely. Why should I be so? I cannot speak well. I
want to be like one of you. I want to feel I have a mother and sisters.
I am so far away from you all now."
("But I always think of you, my dear dead baby.")
"That's just it--your _baby_. But I'm not a baby now. I shall get
nearer. They tell me I shall. I do not know if I can come when you are
alone. It's all so dark. I know you are there, but _so dimly_. I've
grown _all by myself_. I'm not really unhappy, but I want to get nearer
you. I know you think of me, but you think of me as a baby. You don't
know me as I _am_. You've seen me, because in my love I have forced
myself upon you. I've not been amongst the flowers yet, but I shall be,
very soon now; but I want _my mother_ to take me there. All has been
given me that can be given me, but I cannot receive it, except in so
far----"
Here she seemed unable to express herself.
("Did the trouble I had before your birth affect your spirit,
Florence?")
"Only as things cause each other. I was with you, mother, all through
that trouble. I should be nearer to you, _than any child you have_, if I
could only get close to you."
("I can't bear to hear you speak so sadly, dear. I have always believed
that _you_, at least, were happy in Heaven.")
"I am _not_ in Heaven! But there will come a day, mother--I can laugh
when I say it--when we shall go to heaven _together_ and pick blue
flowers--_blue flowers_. They are so good to me here, but if your eye
cannot bear the daylight you cannot see the buttercups and daisies."
I did not learn till afterwards that in the spiritual language blue
flowers are typical of happiness. The next question I asked her was if
she thought she could write through me.
"I don't seem able to write through you, but why, I know not."
("Do you know your sisters, Eva and Ethel?")
"No! no!" in a weary voice. "The link of sisterhood is only through the
mother. That kind of sisterhood does not last, because there is a
higher."
("Do you ever see your father?")
"No! he is far, far away. I went once, not more. Mother, dear, he'll
love me when he comes here. They've told me so, and they always tell
truth here! I am but a child, yet not so very little. I seem composed of
two things--a child in ignorance and a woman in years. Why can't I speak
at other places? I have wished and tried! I've come very near, but it
seems so easy to speak now. This medium seems so different."
("I wish you could come to me when I am alone, Florence.")
"You _shall_ know me! I _will_ come, mother, dear. I shall always be
able to come here. I _do_ come to you, but not in the same way."
She spoke in such a plaintive, melancholy voice that Mrs. Cook, thinking
she would depress my spirits, said, "Don't make your state out to be
sadder than it really is." Her reply was very remarkable.
"_I am, as I am!_ Friend! when you come here, if you find that sadness
_is_, you will not be able to alter it by plunging into material
pleasures. _Our sadness makes the world we live in._ It is not deeds
that make us wrong. It is the state in which _we were born_. Mother! you
say I died sinless. That is nothing. I was born _in a state_. Had I
lived, I should have caused you more pain than you can know. I am better
here. I was not fit to battle with the world, and they took me from it.
Mother! you won't let this make you sad. You must not."
("What can I do to bring you nearer to me?")
"I don't know what will bring me nearer, but I'm helped already by just
talking to you. There's a ladder of brightness--every step. I believe
I've gained just one step now. O! the Divine teachings are so
mysterious. Mother! does it seem strange to you to hear your 'baby' say
things as if she knew them? I'm going now. Good-bye!"
And so "Florence" went. The next voice that spoke was that of a guide of
the medium, and I asked her for a personal description of my daughter as
she then appeared. She replied, "Her face is downcast. We have tried to
cheer her, but she is very sad. It is the _state in which she was born_.
Every physical deformity is the mark of a condition. A weak body is not
necessarily the mark of a weak spirit, but the _prison_ of it, because
the spirit might be too passionate otherwise. You cannot judge in what
way the mind is deformed because the body is deformed. It does not
follow that a canker in the body is a canker in the mind. But the mind
may be too exuberant--may need a canker to restrain it."
I have copied this conversation, word for word, from the shorthand notes
taken at the time of utterance; and when it is remembered that neither
Mrs. Keningale Cook nor her husband knew that I had lost a child--that
they had never been in my house nor associated with any of my
friends--it will at least be acknowledged, even by the most sceptical,
that it was a very remarkable coincidence that I should receive such a
communication from the lips of a perfect stranger. Only once after this
did "Florence" communicate with me through the same source. She found
congenial media nearer home, and naturally availed herself of them. But
the second occasion was almost more convincing than the first. I went
one afternoon to consult my solicitor in the strictest confidence as to
how I should act under some very painful circumstances, and he gave me
his advice. The next morning as I sat at breakfast, Mrs. Cook, who was
still living at Redhill, ran into my room with an apology for the
unceremoniousness of her visit, on the score that she had received a
message for me the night before which "Florence" had begged her to
deliver without delay. The message was to this effect: "Tell my mother
that I was with her this afternoon at the lawyer's, and she is _not_ to
follow the advice given her, as it will do harm instead of good." Mrs.
Cook added, "I don't know to what 'Florence' alludes, of course, but I
thought it best, as I was coming to town, to let you know at once."
The force of this anecdote does not lie in the context. The mystery is
contained in the fact of a secret interview having been overheard and
commented upon. But the truth is, that having greater confidence in the
counsel of my visible guide than in that of my invisible one, I abided
by the former, and regretted it ever afterwards.
The first conversation I held with "Florence" had a great effect upon
me. I knew before that my uncontrolled grief had been the cause of the
untimely death of her body, but it had never struck me that her spirit
would carry the effects of it into the unseen world. It was a warning to
me (as it should be to all mothers) not to take the solemn
responsibility of maternity upon themselves without being prepared to
sacrifice their own feelings for the sake of their children. "Florence"
assured me, however, that communion with myself in my improved condition
of happiness would soon lift her spirit from its state of depression,
and consequently I seized every opportunity of seeing and speaking with
her. During the succeeding twelve months I attended numerous _seances_
with various media, and my spirit child (as she called herself) never
failed to manifest through the influence of any one of them, though, of
course, in different ways. Through some she touched me only, and always
with an infant's hand, that I might recognize it as hers, or laid her
mouth against mine that I might feel the scar upon her lip; through
others she spoke, or wrote, or showed her face, but I never attended a
_seance_ at which she omitted to notify her presence. Once at a dark
circle, held with Mr. Charles Williams, after having had my dress and
that of my next neighbor, Lady Archibald Campbell, pulled several times
as if to attract our attention, the darkness opened before us, and there
stood my child, smiling at us like a happy dream, her fair hair waving
about her temples, and her blue eyes fixed on me. She was clothed in
white, but we saw no more than her head and bust, about which her hands
held her drapery. Lady Archibald Campbell saw her as plainly as I did.
On another occasion Mr. William Eglinton proposed to me to try and
procure the spirit-writing on his arm. He directed me to go into another
room and write the name of the friend I loved best in the spirit world
upon a scrap of paper, which I was to twist up tightly and take back to
him. I did so, writing the name of "John Powles." When I returned to Mr.
Eglinton, he bared his arm, and holding the paper to the candle till it
was reduced to tinder, rubbed his flesh with the ashes. I knew what was
expected to ensue. The name written on the paper was to reappear in red
or white letters on the medium's arm. The sceptic would say it was a
trick of thought-reading, and that, the medium knowing what I had
written, had prepared the writing during my absence. But to his surprise
and mine, when at last he shook the ashes from his arm, we read, written
in a bold, clear hand, the words--"Florence is the dearest," as though
my spirit child had given me a gentle rebuke for writing any name but
her own. It seems curious to me now to look back and remember how
melancholy she used to be when she first came back to me, for as soon as
she had established an unbroken communication between us, she developed
into the merriest little spirit I have ever known, and though her
childhood has now passed away, and she is more dignified and thoughtful
and womanly, she always appears joyous and happy. She has manifested
largely to me through the mediumship of Mr. Arthur Colman. I had known
her, during a dark _seance_ with a very small private circle (the medium
being securely held and fastened the while) run about the room, like the
child she was, and speak to and kiss each sitter in turn, pulling off
the sofa and chair covers and piling them up in the middle of the table,
and changing the ornaments of everyone present--placing the gentlemen's
neckties round the throats of the ladies, and hanging the ladies'
earrings in the buttonholes of the gentlemen's coats--just as she might
have done had she been still with us, a happy, petted child, on earth. I
have known her come in the dark and sit on my lap and kiss my face and
hands, and let me feel the defect in her mouth with my own. One bright
evening on the 9th of July--my birthday--Arthur Colman walked in quite
unexpectedly to pay me a visit, and as I had some friends with me, we
agreed to have a _seance_. It was impossible to make the room dark, as
the windows were only shaded by venetian blinds, but we lowered them,
and sat in the twilight. The first thing we heard was the voice of
"Florence" whispering--"A present for dear mother's birthday," when
something was put into my hand. Then she crossed to the side of a lady
present and dropped something into her hand, saying, "And a present for
dear mother's friend!" I knew at once by the feel of it that what
"Florence" had given me was a chaplet of beads, and knowing how often,
under similar circumstances, articles are merely carried about a room, I
concluded it was one which lay upon my drawing-room mantel-piece, and
said as much. I was answered by the voice of "Aimee," the medium's
nearest control.
"You are mistaken," she said, "'Florence' has given you a chaplet you
have never seen before. She was exceedingly anxious to give you a
present on your birthday, so I gave her the beads which were buried with
me. They came from my coffin. I held them in my hand. All I ask is, that
you will not shew them to Arthur until I give you leave. He is not well
at present, and the sight of them will upset him."
I was greatly astonished, but, of course, I followed her instructions,
and when I had an opportunity to examine the beads, I found that they
really were strangers to me, and had not been in the house before. The
present my lady friend had received was a large, unset topaz. The
chaplet was made of carved wood and steel. It was not till months had
elapsed that I was given permission to show it to Arthur Colman. He
immediately recognized it as the one he had himself placed in the hands
of "Aimee" as she lay in her coffin, and when I saw how the sight
affected him, I regretted I had told him anything about it. I offered to
give the beads up to him, but he refused to receive them, and they
remain in my possession to this day.
But the great climax that was to prove beyond all question the personal
identity of the spirit who communicated with me, with the body I had
brought into the world, was yet to come. Mr. William Harrison, the
editor of the _Spiritualist_ (who, after seventeen years' patient
research into the science of Spiritualism, had never received a personal
proof of the return of his own friends, or relations) wrote me word that
he had received a message from his lately deceased friend, Mrs. Stewart,
to the effect that if he would sit with the medium, Florence Cook, and
one or two harmonious companions, she would do her best to appear to him
in her earthly likeness and afford him the test he had so long sought
after. Mr. Harrison asked me, therefore, if I would join him and Miss
Kidlingbury--the secretary to the British National Association of
Spiritualists--in holding a _seance_ with Miss Cook, to which I agreed,
and we met in one of the rooms of the Association for that purpose. It
was a very small room, about 8 feet by 16 feet, was uncarpeted and
contained no furniture, so we carried in three cane-bottomed chairs for
our accommodation. Across one corner of the room, about four feet from
the floor, we nailed an old black shawl, and placed a cushion behind it
for Miss Cook to lean her head against. Miss Florence Cook, who is a
brunette, of a small, slight figure, with dark eyes and hair which she
wore in a profusion of curls, was dressed in a high grey merino,
ornamented with crimson ribbons. She informed me previous to sitting,
that she had become restless during her trances lately, and in the habit
of walking out amongst the circle, and she asked me as a friend (for
such we had by that time become) to scold her well should such a thing
occur, and order her to go back into the cabinet as if she were "a child
or a dog;" and I promised her I would do so. After Florence Cook had sat
down on the floor, behind the black shawl (which left her grey merino
skirt exposed), and laid her head against the cushion, we lowered the
gas a little, and took our seats on the three cane chairs. The medium
appeared very uneasy at first, and we heard her remonstrating with the
influences for using her so roughly. In a few minutes, however, there
was a tremulous movement of the black shawl, and a large white hand was
several times thrust into view and withdrawn again. I had never seen
Mrs. Stewart (for whom we were expressly sitting) in this life, and
could not, therefore, recognize the hand; but we all remarked how large
and white it was. In another minute the shawl was lifted up, and a
female figure crawled on its hands and knees from behind it, and then
stood up and regarded us. It was impossible, in the dim light and at the
distance she stood from us, to identify the features, so Mr. Harrison
asked if she were Mrs. Stewart. The figure shook its head. I had lost a
sister a few months previously, and the thought flashed across me that
it might be her. "Is it you, Emily?" I asked; but the head was still
shaken to express a negative, and a similar question on the part of Miss
Kidlingbury, with respect to a friend of her own, met with the same
response. "Who _can_ it be?" I remarked curiously to Mr. Harrison.
"Mother! don't you know me?" sounded in "Florence's" whispering voice. I
started up to approach her, exclaiming, "O! my darling child! I never
thought I should meet you here!" But she said, "Go back to your chair,
and I will come to you!" I reseated myself, and "Florence" crossed the
room and sat down _on my lap_. She was more unclothed on that occasion
than any materialized spirit I have ever seen. She wore nothing on her
head, only her hair, of which she appears to have an immense quantity,
fell down her back and covered her shoulders. Her arms were bare and her
feet and part of her legs, and the dress she wore had no shape or style,
but seemed like so many yards of soft thick muslin, wound round her body
from the bosom to below the knees. She was a heavy weight--perhaps ten
stone--and had well-covered limbs. In fact, she was then, and has
appeared for several years past, to be, in point of size and shape, so
like her eldest sister Eva, that I always observe the resemblance
between them. This _seance_ took place at a period when "Florence" must
have been about seventeen years old.
"Florence, my darling," I said, "is this _really_ you?" "Turn up the
gas," she answered, "and look at my mouth." Mr. Harrison did as she
desired, and we all saw distinctly _that peculiar defect on the lip_
with which she was born--a defect, be it remembered, which some of the
most experienced members of the profession had affirmed to be "_so rare
as never to have fallen under their notice before_." She also opened her
mouth that we might see she had no gullet. I promised at the
commencement of my book to confine myself to facts, and leave the
deduction to be drawn from them to my readers, so I will not interrupt
my narrative to make any remarks upon this incontrovertible proof of
identity. I know it struck me dumb, and melted me into tears. At this
juncture Miss Cook, who had been moaning and moving about a good deal
behind the black shawl, suddenly exclaimed, "I can't stand this any
longer," and walked out into the room. There she stood in her grey dress
and crimson ribbons whilst "Florence" sat on my lap in white drapery.
But only for a moment, for directly the medium was fully in view, the
spirit sprung up and darted behind the curtain. Recalling Miss Cook's
injunctions to me, I scolded her heartily for leaving her seat, until
she crept back, whimpering, to her former position. The shawl had
scarcely closed behind her before "Florence" reappeared and clung to me,
saying, "Don't let her do that again. She frightens me so." She was
actually trembling all over. "Why, Florence," I replied. "Do you mean to
tell me you are frightened of your medium? In this world it is we poor
mortals who are frightened of the spirits." "I am afraid she will send
me away, mother," she whispered. However, Miss Cook did not disturb us
again, and "Florence" stayed with us for some time longer. She clasped
her arms round my neck, and laid her head upon my bosom, and kissed me
dozens of times. She took my hand and spread it out, and said she felt
sure I should recognize her hand when she thrust it outside the curtain,
because it was so much like my own. I was suffering much trouble at that
time, and "Florence" told me the reason God had permitted her to show
herself to me in her earthly deformity was so that I might be sure that
she was herself, and that Spiritualism was a truth to comfort me.
"Sometimes you doubt, mother," she said, "and think your eyes and ears
have misled you; but after this you must never doubt again. Don't fancy
I am like this in the spirit land. The blemish left me long ago. But I
put it on to-night to make you certain. Don't fret, dear mother.
Remember _I_ am always near you. No one can take _me_ away. Your earthly
children may grow up and go out into the world and leave you, but you
will always have your spirit child close to you." I did not, and cannot,
calculate for how long "Florence" remained visible on that occasion.
Mr. Harrison told me afterwards that she had remained for nearly twenty
minutes. But her undoubted presence was such a stupendous fact to me,
that I could only think that _she was there_--that I actually held in my
arms the tiny infant I had laid with my own hands in her coffin--that
she was no more dead than I was myself, but had grown to be a woman. So
I sat, with my arms tight round her, and my heart beating against hers,
until the power decreased, and "Florence" was compelled to give me a
last kiss and leave me stupefied and bewildered by what had so
unexpectedly occurred. Two other spirits materialized and appeared after
she had left us, but as neither of them was Mrs. Stewart, the _seance_,
as far as Mr. Harrison was concerned, was a failure. I have seen and
heard "Florence" on numerous occasions since the one I have narrated,
but not with the mark upon her mouth, which she assures me will never
trouble either of us again. I could fill pages with accounts of her
pretty, caressing ways and her affectionate and sometimes solemn
messages; but I have told as much of her story as will interest the
general reader. It has been wonderful to me to mark how her ways and
mode of communication have changed with the passing years. It was a
simple child who did not know how to express itself that appeared to me
in 1873. It is a woman full of counsel and tender warning that comes to
me in 1890. But yet she is only nineteen. When she reached that age,
"Florence" told me she should never grow any older in years or
appearance, and that she had reached the climax of womanly perfection in
the spirit world. Only to-night--the night before Christmas Day--as I
write her story, she comes to me and says, "Mother! you must not give
way to sad thoughts. The Past is past. Let it be buried in the blessings
that remain to you."
And amongst the greatest of those blessings I reckon my belief in the
existence of my spirit-child.