Over and over I repeated it, while the stars disappeared one by one, and the sky grew lighter and lighter. Then, as the sun was just about to rise, a bolt of lightning suddenly seemed to flash from the sky and strike immediately behind. I seemed to be enveloped in flames.

"The house is on fire!" I thought.

"Don't be alarmed," something within me responded. "It’s the Kundalini."

Then I lost consciousness.

But it was a different Malcolm Schloss that awoke later and greeted the Arundales on their arrival.

The bliss remained with me, the inner quickening continued. By this time I was ready to go to England, especially as we had received word that Baba might be there in the fall. I wrote to Meredith reiterating, for myself, Jean's previously expressed hope that we might visit the retreat. A few days later his reply to Jean arrived — a gracious letter, saying how happy he would be to welcome us to East Challacombe whenever we could come, and adding that he knew that if we were intended to come, the way would open for us.

The way began to open almost at once. In the mail the next morning came a letter addressed to Alice Green enclosing a check for fifty dollars, to be given to us for our use. It was from a friend who wished to remain anonymous, but who knew that our stay at Hancock was drawing to a close, and that we would need something in the way of funds wherever we might decide to go, whatever we might decide to do, whatever we might undertake to do.

The following day another friend, last heard of from Virginia, suddenly appeared at Hancock. When he learned what had happened and what we were hoping to do, he contributed fifty dollars. Max and Lillian, thrilled with the turn of events, contributed twenty-five more, as did also a friend of Jean's. I was reminded of a message that had come to us in 1923 from one of our invisible preceptors, and which had run, in part: "Empty your hands, that they may be filled to the utmost capacity of their grasp."

Next came a letter from an elderly friend in the Channel Islands -- a man of considerable wealth, who had retired to his farm on the Isle of Jersey. Most of his books he had sold at auction, but those on religion and philosophy -- and they were many and choice and rare, for he was an authority on Biblical criticism -- he had left with us at The North Node to sell for him on consignment. Now he wrote and asked if we would not accept the books as a gift from him. The collection was worth several thousand dollars. If we could find a place in New York to live and work, we could get the books out of storage, and, in a short time, we were convinced, have enough to pay for our trip to England.

The thought had scarcely taken form before another letter arrived -- this from a