Mr. Maydig, a lean, excitable man with quite remarkably long wrists and neck, was gratified at a request for a private conversation from a young man whose carelessness in religious matters was a subject for general remark in the town.  After a few necessary delays, he conducted him to the study of the manse, which was contiguous to the chapel, seated him comfortably, and, standing in front of a cheerful fire—­his legs threw a Rhodian arch of shadow on the opposite wall—­requested Mr. Fotheringay to state his business.

At first Mr. Fotheringay was a little abashed, and found some difficulty in opening the matter.  “You will scarcely believe me, Mr. Maydig, I am afraid”—­and so forth for some time.  He tried a question at last, and asked Mr. Maydig his opinion of miracles.

Mr. Maydig was still saying “Well” in an extremely judicial tone, when Mr. Fotheringay interrupted again:  “You don’t believe, I suppose, that some common sort of person—­like myself, for instance—­as it might be sitting here now, might have some sort of twist inside him that made him able to do things by his will.”

“It’s possible,” said Mr. Maydig.  “Something of the sort, perhaps, is possible.”

“If I might make free with something here, I think I might show you by a sort of experiment,” said Mr. Fotheringay.  “Now, take that tobacco-jar on the table, for instance.  What I want to know is whether what I am going to do with it is a miracle or not.  Just half a minute, Mr. Maydig, please.”

He knitted his brows, pointed to the tobacco-jar and said:  “Be a bowl of vi’lets.”

The tobacco-jar did as it was ordered.

Mr. Maydig started violently at the change, and stood looking from the thaumaturgist to the bowl of flowers.  He said nothing.  Presently he ventured to lean over the table and smell the violets; they were fresh-picked and very fine ones.  Then he stared at Mr. Fotheringay again.

“How did you do that?” he asked.

Mr. Fotheringay pulled his moustache.  “Just told it—­and there you are.  Is that a miracle, or is it black art, or what is it?  And what do you think’s the matter with me?  That’s what I want to ask.”

“It’s a most extraordinary occurrence.”

“And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that than you did.  It came quite sudden.  It’s something odd about my will, I suppose, and that’s as far as I can see.”

“Is that—­the only thing.  Could you do other things besides that?”

“Lord, yes!” said Mr. Fotheringay.  “Just anything.”  He thought, and suddenly recalled a conjuring entertainment he had seen.  “Here!” he pointed, “change into a bowl of fish—­no, not that—­change into a glass bowl full of water with goldfish swimming in it.  That’s better!  You see that, Mr. Maydig?”

“It’s astonishing.  It’s incredible.  You are either a most extraordinary...  But no——­”

“I could change it into anything,” said Mr. Fotheringay.  “Just anything.  Here! be a pigeon, will you?”