“Mr. Channing,” Dr. Lamb continued in a deeper tone, “the words sounded in my ear, fell upon my heart, as a very message sent direct from God. All the folly of my own obstinate disbelief came full upon me; the scales seemed to fall from my eyes, and I said, ‘Shall I not try that simple thing?’ A firm conviction that the chapter had been directed to me that night as a warning, seated itself within me; and, from that hour, I never entertained a shadow of doubt but that the baths would be successful.” “And you journeyed to them?” “Instantly. Within a week I was there. I seemed to _know_ that I was going to my cure. You will not, probably, understand this.” “I understand it perfectly,” was Mr. Channing’s answer. “I believe that a merciful Providence does vouchsafe, at rare times, to move us by these direct interpositions. I need not ask you if you were cured. I have heard that you were. I see you are. Can you tell me aught of the actual means?” “I was ordered to a small place in the neighbourhood of Aix-la-Chapelle; a quiet, unpretending place, where there are ever-rising springs of boiling, sulphuric water. The precise course of treatment I will come in another day and describe to you. I had to drink a great deal of the water, warm--six or eight half-pints of it a day; I had to bathe regularly in this water; and I had to take what are called douche baths every other day.” “I have heard of the douche baths,” said Mr. Channing. “Rather fierce, are they not?” “Fierce!” echoed the doctor. “The first time I tried one, I thought I should never come out alive. The water was dashed upon me, through a tube, with what seemed alarming force until I grew used to it; whilst an attendant rubbed and turned and twisted my limbs about, as if they had been so many straws in his strong hand. So violent is the action of the water that my face had to be protected by a board, lest it should come into contact with it.” “Strong treatment!” remarked Mr. Channing. “Strong, but effectual. Effectual, so far as my case was concerned. Whether it was drinking the water, or the sulphur baths, the douches, the pure air, or the Prussian doctor’s medicine, or all combined, I was, under God’s goodness, restored to health. I entertain no doubt that you may be restored in like manner.” “And the cost?” asked Mr. Channing, with a sigh he could not wholly suppress. “There’s the beauty of it! the advantage to us poor folks, who possess a shallow purse, and that only half filled,” laughed Dr. Lamb. “Had it been costly, _I_ could not have afforded it. These baths, mind you, are in the hotel, which is the greatest possible accommodation to invalids; the warm baths cost a franc each, the douche two francs, the water you drink, nothing. The doctor’s fee is four and sixpence, and you need not consult him often. Ascertain the proper course, and go on with it.” “But the hotel expenses?”