I saw Mr. World and his escort enter a physician’s office which stood as near the King’s Highway as Satan could build it. The doctor was examining a church deacon who, by reason of his disease, found it hard to travel on a way so narrow and rugged. He was given a vial of medicine with specific directions. After the patient had left, the doctor smiled derisively and pocketed his fee with ghoulish delight. “What ailed that man asked?” Mr. World. “Can you tell me the cause of his malady?” “He has been eating and eating sermons, exhortations, and pious literature, and has done scarcely any work for his so-called Master. Eating much and working little generally results in gout or rheumatic diseases. There are large numbers in the church coming here for treatment who are similarly affected. I suppose such Christians enjoy eating better than they enjoy working.” “Do you prepare them for better service on the King’s Highway?” “Never! My business is to give them such medicine as will make all kinds of spiritual food repulsive to them. Then, rather than starve, they go to the fat lands on the Broad Highway for which my medicine prepares them. There they eat of the fruit forbidden by their former Master, for it is sweet-tasting withal. Some go on in the forbidden kingdoms until death, and hold an honorable place in their first church. Others are dealt with more summarily on account of the radical views entertained by certain bigots who wage warfare against a man who finds delight in gardens other than his own.” The electric bell summoned the doctor to the door. He opened it, and there stood a pilgrim from the King’s Highway. She entered and, fully exhausted, sank into a chair. “What is the difficulty?” asked the physician in a cool manner. “Something terrible indeed, or else my comrades accuse me unjustly.” “With what do they charge you, Miss Goodly-Minded?” he questioned, as he felt her pulse. “I am accused of being out of order just because I do not run all the time to prayer-meeting and to other services of the church. They say I am not fit to travel this way, and therefore I have found it very difficult to get over some of the obstacles. Weariness and fatigue have almost dragged me to the earth. My persecution will prove to be my death unless you can give me some medicine to relieve me.” “Let me see your tongue,” the physician requested. This done, he continued: “Ah! I can easily see, by your coated tongue, that you have already eaten more good things than you could digest. If there is any error, it is because you have already gone to church too much. I have medicine to cure you.” At that he walked into another room and opened a secret door. I saw him pour a liquid from a large bottle labeled, “Satan’s Malaria Cure.” It contained a mixture of unbelief, ridicule, and self-righteousness. He filled a small vial with sugar pellets and saturated them with the mixture from the large bottle.