While Neville was away, a dozen people wrote to him; he reads out four typewritten pages of three linked stories sent by a man who is present in the audience — the four-colour magazine produced in two weeks, the dry cleaner's lost trousers recovered by imaginal touch, and the overdrawn bank account resolved by a tenfold bonus.

A woman present at the lecture told Neville during the past week of a vision she had had the previous November, in which she saw him standing on a beach with his back to the ocean, in a white robe, addressing an enormous crowd of many faiths, knowing simultaneously that he was Neville and that he was Jesus.

He reads out a letter received that past week from a woman in his audience, describing a dream in which she alone had a lighted house in a dark street, followed grey puppet-like people up a hill where a lion-maned man with a light over his head called each person's name three times and none could answer, and a cold receptionist told her the sleeping people were in a house that was not their own.

Neville describes receiving the friend's letters - one typed and signed in script, with a note in Beth's own bold pencil script at the foot which he could not interpret from the platform, and a later letter confirming that she really did take them out and show them the new car on Friday night.

In New York years ago he taught astrology to Norma, a retired Scranton schoolteacher living at Broadway and 72nd; she drew the wrong chart from a wind-blown Ephemeris, read it with total conviction, and the client wired her the promised $100 while Neville was present — yet she remained a professional astrologer, with Metropolitan Opera singers as clients, until she died.

A woman wrote to Neville this week describing a vision of a shaft of light with angels ascending, an ancient desert-dweller before her, and a voice asking who would believe his report and answering 'None...save but a few', followed by singing about herself and the words that all heard it on different levels.

A friend present at the lecture told him that about ten years earlier, while driving, everything became nothing but light with infinity falling in tiny tadpole-like forms, he heard within him "All is one," stopped the car by reflex, and told the angry passing drivers that everything was all right; Neville tells him he was genuinely illumined and instructs him how to arrest one of the falling lights.

Neville reads out and then expounds a letter he received a few weeks earlier from a dear friend — a humorous writer and long-time student of his message — describing a voice within proclaiming 'I am God' and a dream in which he threw golf balls into an empty desert to create homes, a golf course and a gate, and could only change a dilapidated house and streetcar by persisting.

In New York City this past May he told his audience they must be doers of the word, and a longtime student, estranged for two years from her son and daughter-in-law Mary, went home and for seven nights imagined reading two letters she had mentally written herself - one from her daughter-in-law and one from her grandson - and on the eighth morning received exactly those two letters in the mail; she gave him permission to tell the story, and his audience objected in the question period to the idea of writing one's own love letters.