“I was never better in my life, sir,” said I; “he has no reason to be worried.”

“I shall be glad to be able to relieve his mind,” said the Doctor.

Now, I had wit enough to observe that the Doctor had not said “I am glad,” but “I shall be glad,” and I asked, “Do you think I am wrong in health?”

“Not seriously,” he replied; “but I think it will be well for you to see the letter, and if you will be so good as to accompany me to my lodging, I will show it to you.”

Dr. Khayme’s “lodging” proved to be a small cottage on one of the side streets.  There was a miniature garden in front:  vines clambered over the porch and were trained so that they almost hid the windows.  An old woman, who seemed to be housekeeper, cook, and everything that a general servant may be, opened to his knock.

“I never carry a key,” said the Doctor, seemingly in response to my thought.

I was led into a bright room in the back of the house.  The windows looked on the sunset.  The floor was bare, except in front of the grate, where was spread the skin of some strange animal.  For the rest, there was nothing remarkable about the apartment.  An old bookcase in a corner seemed packed to bursting with dusty volumes in antique covers, A writing-table, littered and piled with papers, was in the middle of the room, and there were a few easy-chairs, into one of which the Doctor motioned me.

Excusing himself a moment, he went to the mantel, took seemed fixed on me, but I felt that he was looking through me at something beyond.

Again he spoke.  “I think that what you need is to exert your will.  I can help you to do that.  You are very receptive; you have great will-power also, but you have not cultivated that power.  This is a critical time in your life.  You are becoming a man.  You must use your will.  I can help you by making you see that you can use your will, and that the will is very powerful—­that your will is very powerful.  He who has confidence in his own will-power will exert it.  I can help you to have confidence.  But I cannot exert your will for you; you must do that.  To begin with, I shall give you a very simple task.  I think I can understand a little your present attitude toward me.  You are in doubt.  I wish you to be in doubt, for the moment.  I wish your curiosity and desires for and against to be so evenly balanced that you will have no difficulty in choosing for or against.  You are just in that condition.  You have feared and mistrusted me; now your fear and suspicion are leaving you, and curiosity is balancing against indolence.  I do not bid you to make an effort to will; I leave it entirely to you to determine now whether you will struggle against weakness or submit to it; whether you will begin to use your sleeping will-power or else continue to accept what comes.”

I rose to my feet at once.

“What is your decision?” asked the Doctor smiling—­the first smile I had ever seen on his face.