"Well," replied the singer, "that is just what is the matter with me. The shivers do go through me. I am shocked at the moral discord I am making. I am striking false notes all the time. My life doesn't follow the score of my conscience. I don't mean that I have committed murder or picked pockets, but it seems to me that I am breaking the commandment by bearing false witness about myself, making people think I am a saint, or want to be one, when the fact is that I put no more heart into my singing than the organ-pipe does." So saying Vox strode across the floor, holding a plate of rarebit as if it were a sheet of music, and jerked the toasted cheese off it as he seemed to jerk the notes off the paper when he sang. The doctor slipped from the lounge just in time to escape a savory splash which was aiming itself straight for the space between his vest and shirt-bosom. The dog growled at the apparent attack upon his master, but was diverted from further warlike demonstrations by the bit of toast that fell under his nose. "Your dog is as good as a special policeman for you, doctor." "Yes, he defends me in more ways than one. Do you know why I call him Caleb? Caleb is Hebrew for 'God's dog.' One day, when he was a pup, I forgot myself and dropped into a regular pessimist over some materialistic trash I was reading. The pup seemed to notice my sour face, and put his paws upon my knees, lolled out his tongue, and searched me through and through with those bright eyes of his. It was as much as to say, 'Master, you're a fool. Look at me. Didn't it take a God to make such a marvelous creature as I am?' So I have called him Caleb ever since. He tackles many a doubt for me, as he would any other robber." "I wish I had your faith, doctor," said Vox, putting his arm around Caleb's neck, and dropping another piece of toast into the waiting jaws. "Faith? You have got it, Phil; only you don't know it." "Nonsense, doctor! I suppose I believe the Creed; at least I don't disbelieve it. But I don't feel these things. That's what makes me say that I am a hypocrite to sing in a Christian church. To-night I saw a woman crying during my solo. I felt like stopping. I never feel like crying, except when the notes cry themselves; then I confess to a moistening that goes all through me. Now what right have I to make another feel what I don't feel myself? I tell you, doctor, I am nothing but a bellowing hypocrite. I'm going into opera, where it is all make-believe. You know that I've had offers that would tempt a singing devil; and I believe I would be one if it were not for you." The doctor eyed his guest quizzically for a moment, then deliberately stretched himself again on the lounge.