roots at all. Professor Kraill's a biologist, isn't he?"

"Well, yes--rather a heterodox one, but he's getting believed now. But
how on earth did you know?" he said, turning on her in surprise.

"There was an advertisement of a book of his lectures. It was called
'Questing Cells' and father got it. I had to read it to him--with a
dictionary at almost every line, because I didn't understand it. It
showed me that, though I am muddled now, there is such a thing as
clearness in the world. It seemed to me that if I knew all the things
Professor Kraill knows things might be like a crystal ball--all the
things in the world, you know, beautifully clear and rounded off. I read
a lot of books to father after that and got muddled again. But I never
lost the feel of Professor Kraill's book. I couldn't tell you a word of
it now, but it's like the memory of a most beautiful music. I love him.
I'd love to hear him--to see him. He's the wisest man in the world."

"Heaven forbid!" said the doctor, laughing a little.

"Why? Don't you admire him?"

"Immensely, though he's heterodox. But he's just what I was saying
to you just now--an example of a man who isn't the Trinity. Being a
biologist, he's run all to body and brain. He's let his spirit get
famished a bit. Queer things--one hears, too--inevitable things."

"How do you mean?" she cried, quick to defend her hero, but eager with
curiosity about him.

"Oh, things you wouldn't understand. He's given up his chair at the