O.M. Very much. Shall we suppose, as a beginning, that the two are alone, in a solitary place, at midnight? Y.M. If you choose. O.M. And that the fellow-being is the man’s daughter? Y.M. Well, n-no—make it someone else. O.M. A filthy, drunken ruffian, then? Y.M. I see. Circumstances alter cases. I suppose that if there was no audience to observe the act, the man wouldn’t perform it. O.M. But there is here and there a man who _would_. People, for instance, like the man who lost his life trying to save the child from the fire; and the man who gave the needy old woman his twenty-five cents and walked home in the storm—there are here and there men like that who would do it. And why? Because they couldn’t _bear_ to see a fellow-being struggling in the water and not jump in and help. It would give _them_ pain. They would save the fellow-being on that account. _They wouldn’t do it otherwise_. They strictly obey the law which I have been insisting upon. You must remember and always distinguish the people who _can’t bear_ things from people who _can_. It will throw light upon a number of apparently “self-sacrificing” cases. Y.M. Oh, dear, it’s all so disgusting. O.M. Yes. And so true. Y.M. Come—take the good boy who does things he doesn’t want to do, in order to gratify his mother. O.M. He does seven-tenths of the act because it gratifies _him_ to gratify his mother. Throw the bulk of advantage the other way and the good boy would not do the act. He _must_ obey the iron law. None can escape it. Y.M. Well, take the case of a bad boy who— O.M. You needn’t mention it, it is a waste of time. It is no matter about the bad boy’s act. Whatever it was, he had a spirit-contenting reason for it. Otherwise you have been misinformed, and he didn’t do it. Y.M. It is very exasperating. A while ago you said that man’s conscience is not a born judge of morals and conduct, but has to be taught and trained. Now I think a conscience can get drowsy and lazy, but I don’t think it can go wrong; if you wake it up— _A Little Story_ O.M. I will tell you a little story: Once upon a time an Infidel was guest in the house of a Christian widow whose little boy was ill and near to death. The Infidel often watched by the bedside and entertained the boy with talk, and he used these opportunities to satisfy a strong longing in his nature—that desire which is in us all to better other people’s condition by having them think as we think. He was successful. But the dying boy, in his last moments, reproached him and said: “_I believed, and was happy in it; you have taken my belief away, and my comfort. Now I have nothing left, and I die miserable; for the things which you have told me do not take the place of that which I have lost_.” And the mother, also, reproached the Infidel, and said: