you, of course, and I shall go through with the affair to the finish;
but you must doctor the souls, and let me attend to the bodies for the
present."

The speaker was a powerful, broad fellow, with a kind of military
carriage; his tall forehead was crossed by soft lines of tranquil
thought, and he had the unmistakable look of the true student. Lewis
Ferrier came south to Cambridge after he had done well at Edinburgh. He
might have been Senior Wrangler had he chosen, but he read everything
that he should not have read, and he was beaten slightly by a typical
examinee of the orthodox school. Still, every one knew that Ferrier was
the finest mathematician of his year, and there was much muttering and
whispering in academic corners when he decided at last to go in for
medicine. He said, "I want something practical," and that was all the
explanation he ever gave to account for his queer change. He took a
brilliant medical degree, and he decided to accept a professorship of
Biology before attempting to practise. His reasons for being out on the
North Sea in an autumn gale will come out by degrees.

A gentle-looking man stepped up to Ferrier and laid a white hand on his
arm. "We shall never interfere with you in the least degree, my dear
Ferrier. We'll take such help as you can give. We need all we can get.
When you are fairly in the thick of our work you will perhaps understand
that we have vital need of religion to keep us up at all. You can't tell
what an appalling piece of work there is before us; but I give you my
word that if religion were not a vital part of my being, if I did not
believe that God is watching every action and leading us in our blind
struggles, I should faint at my task; I should long for extinction,
though only cowards seek it of their own accord."