"Yes," he said, "you compelled me to wait your pleasure, and now and then, instead of being dictated to, dictated. That, to me, was a new condition of a psychic force at present in its infancy, but which, at some not too distant time, will be the means of producing marvellous revealments." "What brought us into harmony," I observed, "was the fact that the subject was one which commanded our entire and undivided sympathies." "My daughter." "Yes, your daughter Lauretta." "You obtained a promise from me which was to be confirmed I infer in such a conversation as we are holding now. I confirm it. And you, on your part, will abide by the engagement into which you entered with me respecting Lauretta." "Assuredly." We clasped hands, and directed our conversation into another channel. The agreement we had made necessitated certain action with respect to my residence in Nerac during the period of probation. I felt that it would be scarcely right for me to continue to live in the doctor's house; even were a closer tie not in contemplation, it would have been indelicate on my part to encroach upon the hospitality of these generous friends. It was for me to make the first move in the matter, and I did so when we were sitting together after the evening meal. "I have had it for some time in my mind," I said, "to endeavour to express my heartfelt thanks for all the kindness you have shown me; but although I am not usually at a loss for words, I am at a loss to carry out my wish in a fitting manner." "It is enough," said Lauretta's mother, with a gentle inclination of her head. "Having said so much, there is no need for anything more. Do not distress yourself. What has been done has been cheerfully and willingly done, and your restoration to health is the best return you could make for the slight service we have been able to render you." "There was a time," I remarked, "when I myself might have regarded the saving of my life a slight service; that was when I deemed life of little value, when I thought there was little in the world worth caring for. But it is different now; my life is precious to me, and the world is very beautiful." "It is," said Doctor Louis, "all a question of the liver. The world is bright or dark according to the state of our digestions." He often interjected these pleasant discordances, upon which we placed their proper value, knowing that they were introduced chiefly for the purpose of giving a healthy turn to the conversation. This did not, however, detract from the wisdom of his utterances, which were nuts with sound kernels within. "Therefore," I continued, smiling at the doctor, and becoming grave immediately afterwards, "what you have done for me is of inestimable value, and cannot be priced. There is only one way of showing my gratitude, and that way lies in the future, not in the present. It shall be my endeavour to prove to you that your precious kindness has not been wasted."