the cause of his disgrace, and if he'd only been to you he would have won
the Cross too. Isn't it so? How you doctors must laugh at mystics, and at
those who are ascetics, save for sake of their health. Why, I suppose
even the saint owes his so-called goodness to some analyzable proceeding
that has gone on in his inside, and that you could diagnose. Eh?"

Doctor Levillier was writing a prescription in which bismuth was an item.
He glanced up quietly.

"The more I know of the body, the more I think of and believe in the
power of the soul," he said. "Have that made up. Take it three times a
day and come to me again in a fortnight. Good-morning."

Indeed, this little man was writing prescriptions for the body and
thinking prescriptions for the soul all day long. Within him there
dwelt a double mind, the mind of a great doctor and the mind of a great
priest, and these two minds linked hands and lived as friends. The one
never strove against the other. There was never a moment of estrangement.
And if there were frequent arguments and discussions between the two,
they were the arguments and discussions that make friendship firmer,
not enmity more bitter. And, as Dr. Levillier very well knew, it was
often the mind of the priest within him that gave to him his healing
power over the body. It was the mind of the priest that had won him
testimonial clocks and silver salvers from grateful patients. Often as
he sat with some dingy-faced complainant, listening to a recital of
sickness or uttering directions about avoidance of green meat, sauces,
pastry, and liquids, till the atmosphere seemed that of a hospital, a
pastry-cook's shop and a bar combined, he was silently examining the
patient's soul, facing its probable vagaries, mapping out the tours it
had taken, scheming for its welfare. And, perhaps, after the dietary was