"No, but that doesn't disprove it. Listen to me. The life-plant is the most peculiar growth in nature, and cannot be confounded with anything else. The principal accessories to its full development are pure air and sunshine, hence it is found only in the still places of the woods and valleys. It is exceedingly rare. You might spend a year searching for it under the most favorable conditions, and find only one specimen. Again, you might find none. So far as science has gone, it grows from neither seed, bulb, nor root. It seems to germinate from certain elemental conjunctions, attains maturity, flowers and dies. It may appear in the cleft of a rock, on the side of a mountain range, or in the rich mold of a valley. It claims no special season for its own, but may come in December as well as in June. It springs from snow as frequently as from summer grass. This is how it looks. It is about twelve inches high. Its stem is a most vivid green; its leaves are triangular, of a bright golden color, and the flower, which comes just at the top, is a collection of clear little globules, like the berries of the mistletoe. They are clearer and purer than the mistletoe berry, however. In fact, they are all but transparent, and might readily be mistaken for a cluster of dewdrops. Therein lies the efficacy of this strange plant. Gather the bloom carefully, immerse it in a glass of water for twelve hours, then drink the decoction entire. It will rout your embryo colony, and make you sound and strong as I." He leaned back and slapped his chest with his open hand. "You're dopey, 'Crombie," I said, doubting, but longing to believe him. He wheeled around to his desk. "All right, my son. You came to me for advice, and got it. I consider that I've done my duty by you." "Oh, come now!" I pleaded, ready to conciliate. "That's an awful cock-and-bull story you've handed me, and you mustn't get huffy if it doesn't go down without choking. I'll try to swallow it, 'Crombie. I do appreciate your advice, and I'm going to try and take it;--but tell me more about this infernal flower." "Not infernal," he corrected, mollified; "but supernal. I don't think there's any more to tell. Your stunt is to search till you find it, then follow directions." "You say it grows anywhere?" I continued, assuming interest. "Where there's pure air and sunshine," he repeated. "And grows out of _snow_, 'Crombie?" "As well as out of warm soil," he averred, doggedly. "It appears to me that you're looney, 'Crombie, but I hope you're not, and I'll hunt for your bloomin' life-plant. But the question now is: who is going with me into my hill of refuge?" "Who's going with you? Nobody! Who would go with you? People nowadays have neither time nor inclination to burrow in the wilderness for a twelve-month!" I groaned, for I knew that he was right. Martyrdom never has company. "There's no other way?" I pleaded. "Couldn't I have a native look for this healing flower for me?"