“My dear Parkyn,” I said, when my friend had finished his story, “the very essence of materialism itself, should respect the artistic and emotional nature that could develop such an experience as you have had. I am, myself, by no means so materialistic as you suppose. We have not yet solved the mysteries of psychology. We know nothing of the workings of human affinities, and there are those, even among us men of science, who are not altogether blind to the possibilities of the occult. Men have been shattered upon the rocks and shoals of ideality before, and will be again. Not all could have so pure and fair an ideal as you have described. Your vision was extraordinary, and although as a physician I might descant to you on the relation of over-work and lack of exercise to figments of the imagination, still as a man, and one in whom the finer sensibilities are not yet dead, I must acknowledge that I not only sympathize with you, but I--well, I myself suspect that there is somewhere a substantial foundation for your dream. It is by no means impossible that you may one day find your model, and, my dear fellow, I sincerely hope you will.” Parkyn grasped my hand warmly, and stood in silence for a moment, then, with an expression of gratification and happiness such as I had never before seen on his face, he said slowly: “You do, indeed, understand me, doctor. Your medical philosophy is tinctured with just enough of the fire of romance, your heart has just enough of the emotional attributes of the true artist, to enable you to be something more than a mere compounder and prescriber of drugs. I understand now, why you have a penchant for psychology. Wise is he who hath read the chapter on hearts in the book of human life!” * * * * *