"None. To me, they are synonymous terms." "Is it from the intellect, then," said Bergan, "that the moral sense comes?" Doctor Remy's lips opened for a reply, but closed again in silence. And, knowing that he was never at a loss for a rejoinder, Bergan suspected that the words so suddenly cut off from utterance were of a franker character than his second thought approved. Before his less impromptu answer was ready, Bergan, following out some rapid, unexplained train of thought, asked;-- "Doctor, did you ever feel remorse?" "Never. That is a disease. I am in health." "But, doctor," persisted Bergan, "should you call that a healthy body, which was incapable of feeling pain? Should you not rather say that it was paralyzed, or ossified?" "Just as I should say that it was inflamed, if mere pressure caused it acute pain," answered Doctor Remy. Bergan looked unconvinced. "I do not mean that I never feel regret," explained the doctor. "I have often been angry with myself for having been guilty of a mistake." "A mistake," repeated Bergan, doubtfully. "Do you mean a sin?" "I will not be particular about terms," replied Doctor Remy, shrugging his shoulders. "But I prefer my own, as better expressing my ideas." Bergan looked a little bewildered. The doctor again condescended to explain. "Like you," said he, "I hold it to be every man's duty to make the most of his life,--his talents, time, and health. If he so act as to hinder the development, or impair the value and efficiency, of any of these, does it make any practical difference whether we call it a sin or a mistake?" "None," answered Bergan, with scorn that he could not repress; "except that it narrows everything,--aim, responsibility, hope, faith, desire, and fulfilment,--down to man's miserable self!" "Well," said the doctor, coldly, "bring me the most signal example of heroism, disinterestedness, charity,--what you like,--that you can find; and I will point out to you a plain germ of selfishness at the bottom of it." "What of that?" replied Bergan, with kindling eyes. "Because we can never wholly get rid of self, in this lower life, does it therefore follow that we must concentrate our thoughts and aims upon it? Must we forever deny ourselves the ennobling, elevating, softening influence of a duty and a hope outside of ourselves; an object of affection, trust, and desire, higher than ourselves?" Bergan reached out for a book, found a marked passage, and read aloud. "'Take the example of a dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man, who, to him, is instead of a God, or _melior natura_; which courage is manifestly such as that creature, without that confidence in a nature better than his own, could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favor, gathereth a force and faith which human nature would not otherwise obtain.'"