Hazen hesitated--and in an instant his head was a chaos of voices. It was as if all the little Selves, even those which had now long been silent, were listening, were suddenly fighting among themselves in open combat to see what they could make Hazen do. “That beautiful thing!” cried the Beauty Self. “Keep it--keep it, Hazen!” “You will never have another chance at a fortune if you give it up!” cried the Discontented Self. “If you throw away your chance at a fortune, your life will be a life of hard work--and where will your good time come in?” cried the little Fun Self, anxiously. “You will have only labour and no leisure for learning--” warned the Knowledge Self. “What of the Princess Vista? Do you not owe it to her to keep the casket? And is it not _right_ that you should keep the casket and grow wise and _really_ good and loved and beautiful?” they all argued in turn. And above them all sounded the terrible, cracked voice of the dwarf, not laughing now, but fighting for his life:-- “Fool! Nothing counts but your chance at fortune. If you part with the casket, you part with _me!_” But sweet and clear through the clamour sounded the solemn insisting of the Thought:-- “Give him the casket--give him the casket, Hazen.” Quickly Hazen knelt beside the old man, and placed the magic casket in his hands. “Lo,” said Prince Hazen, “I have nothing to give you, save only this. But it may be that we can yet find some way to release the spirit and that then you can have the good fortune that this will give. Take the casket--it is yours.” In an instant, and noiselessly, the magic casket fell in pieces in Hazen’s hands, and vanished. And with a soft sound of escaping wings the little spirit rose joyously and fluttered toward Hazen, and alighted on his breast. There were sudden sweetness and light in all the place, and a happiness that bewildered Hazen--and when he looked again, the little spirit had disappeared--but his own breast was filled with something new and marvellous, as if strange doors to himself had opened, and as if the spirit had found lodging there forever. In the clear silence following upon the babel of the little voices of all the mean and petty Selves, Hazen was aware of a voice echoing within him like music; and he knew the Thought now better than he knew himself, who had so many Selves, and he knew that when it spoke to him softly, softly, he would always hear. “If you had kept the magic casket for yourself,” it said, “the spirit would have drooped and died. _It was only by giving the casket away that the spirit could ever be free._ It was only when the spirit became yours that you could hope to be wise and good and beautiful and worthy to be loved. And now where is the Princess Vista’s picture-book?”