While writing the Letters From a Living Dead Man, at the automatic dictation of my old friend Judge David P. Hatch, I became very well acquainted with the personality of that angel, deva or sylph, who acted as his courier in the invisible worlds. He called it the Beautiful Being, but I call it the Vagrom Angel. It always refused to name itself. As a little girl I used to read in the Bible how angels visited the prophets of Israel. The idea appealed to my imagination. When I asked my mother why angels did not visit me, she did not reply as most mothers would, Such things do not happen in our day; she said, Perhaps they do — only you cannot see them. So I used to go out into the old apple-orchard north of the house at twilight, and seating myself under a tree, look fixedly at the sky above the mountains and try to see angels. Though I could not see any, I felt sure that it was not the angels' fault, but mine.