Now, when the real Charley Steele emerged again, the folds of mind and
soul unrolling to the million-voiced creation and touched by the antenna
of a various civilisation, the phantom Charley was gone once more into
obscurity. The real Charley could remember naught of the other, could
feel naught, save, as in the stirring industrious day, one remembers that
he has dreamed a strange dream the night before, and cannot recall it,
though the overpowering sense of it remains.

He saw the work of his hands, the things he had made with adze and plane,
with chisel and hammer, but nothing seemed familiar save the smell of the
glue pot, which brought back in a cloudy impression curious unfamiliar
feelings. Sights, sounds, motions, passed in a confused way through his
mind as the smell of the glue crept through his nostrils; and he
struggled hard to remember. But no--seven months of his life were gone
for ever. Yet he knew and felt that a vast change had gone over him, had
passed through him. While the soul had lain fallow, while the body had
been growing back to childlike health again, and Nature had been pouring
into his sick senses her healing balm; while the medicaments of peace and
sleep and quiet labour had been having their way with him, he had been
reorganised, renewed, flushed of the turgid silt of dissipation. For his
sins and weaknesses there had been no gall and vinegar to drink.

As Charley stood looking round the workshop, Jo entered, shaking the snow
from his moccasined feet. "The Cure, M'sieu' Loisel, has come," he said.
Charley turned, and, without a word, followed Jo into the house. There,
standing at the window and looking down at the village beneath, was the
Cure. As Charley entered, M. Loisel carne forward with outstretched
hand.

"I am glad to see you well again, Monsieur," he said, and his cool thin