"Let me stay, uncle," said I. "Don't send me away. Perhaps I
can help you or comfort you."

"Poor soul! you shall stay if you will. I am in great
trouble and need help, but you are a boy--I cannot ask you
to give your life to me."

He sat down before the table, breathing heavily, and
beckoned me to a chair beside him. I was quite dumfounded
and knew not what to say. Presently he began writing upon
large sheets of paper, handing each one to me as soon as it
was covered. The manuscript read as follows:

"I am not able to talk much. To me words are a lie and an
abomination. Even these I now write are misrepresenting me
and deceiving you, though I wish them to tell the truth.
They will make me out an ass or a madman. I am neither. For
eighteen years I have scarcely spoken as many words. A word
or two of Sanscrit now and then has met my needs, thank God!
There is an interior language for which speech is an
imperfect medium. Through that interior language thought is
communicated directly and truthfully. I used it long before
I came here--imperfectly, to be sure, but with a small
degree of satisfaction to myself. Through it I was able to
heal the sick when others failed. I knew how they felt
better than they could tell me in feeble words. In some more
perfect state of evolution, beyond the grave, perhaps, all
men will have this power and it will be perfect. I can enjoy
but an imperfect use of it until the mortal part of me has