“Have you any hope,” said Amroth, “of recovery?”

“Of course, of course,” said our conductor with a smile.  “Nothing is hopeless here; our cures are complete and even rapid; but this is a particularly obstinate one!”

“Well,” said Amroth, “would you like to see more?”

“No,” I said, “I have seen enough.  I cannot now bear any more.”

Our conductor smiled indulgently.

“Yes,” he said, “it is bewildering at first; but one sees wonderful things here!  This is our library,” he added, leading us to a great airy room, full of books and reading-desks, where a large number of inmates were sitting reading and writing.  They glanced up at us with friendly and contented smiles.  A little further on we came to another cell, before which our conductor stopped, and looked at me.  “I should like,” he said, “if you are not too tired, just to take you in here; there is a patient, who is very near recovery indeed, in here, and it would do him good to have a little talk with a stranger.”

I bowed, and we went in.  A man was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.  An attendant was sitting near the window reading a book.  The patient, at our entry, removed his hands from his face and looked up, half impatiently, with an air of great suffering, and then slowly rose.

“How are you feeling, dear sir?” said our conductor quietly.

“Oh,” said the man, looking at us, “I am better, much better.  The light is breaking in, but it is a sore business, when I was so strong in my pride.”

“Ah,” said our guide, “it is indeed a slow process; but happiness and health must be purchased; and every day I see clearly that you are drawing nearer to the end of your troubles—­you will soon be leaving us!  But now I want you kindly to bestir yourself, and talk a little to this friend of ours, who has not been long with us, and finds the place somewhat, bewildering.  You will be able to tell him something of what is passing in your mind; it will do you good to put it into words, and it will be a help to him.”

“Very well,” said the man gravely, “I will do my best.”  And the others withdrew, leaving me with the man.  When they had gone, the man asked me to be seated, and leaning his head upon his hand he said, “I do not know how much you know and how little, so I will tell you that I left the world very confident in a particular form of faith, and very much disposed to despise and even to dislike those who did not agree with me.  I had lived, I may say, uprightly and purely, and I will confess that I even welcomed all signs of laxity and sinfulness in my opponents, because it proved what I believed, that wrong conduct sprang naturally from wrong belief.  I came here in great content, and thought that this place was the reward of faithful living.  But I had a great shock.  I was very tenderly attached to one whom I left on earth, and the severest grief of my life was that she did not think as I did, but used to plead with me for a wider outlook and a larger faith in the designs of God.  She used to say to me that she felt that God had different ways of saving different people, and that people were saved by love and not by doctrine.  And this I combated with all my might.  I used to say, ‘Doctrine first, and love afterwards,’ to which she often said, ’No, love is first!’