He paused, and his face became graver and more abstracted.

“But what?” I queried eagerly.

“I was about to say,” he continued, “that the effect is only transitory.  Within forty-eight hours you must naturally relapse into your former prostrate condition, and I, unfortunately, am powerless to prevent it.”

I sighed wearily, and a feeling of disappointment oppressed me.  Was it possible that I must again be the victim of miserable dejection, pain, and stupor?

“You can give me another dose of your remedy,” I said.

“That I cannot, mademoiselle,” he answered regretfully; “I dare not, without further advice and guidance.”

“Advice and guidance from whom?” I inquired.

“From the friend who cured me of my long and almost hopeless illness,” said Cellini.  “He alone can tell me whether I am right in my theories respecting your nature and constitution.”

“And what are those theories?” I asked, becoming deeply interested in the conversation.

Cellini was silent for a minute or so; he seemed absorbed in a sort of inward communion with himself.  Then he spoke with impressiveness and gravity: 

“In this world, mademoiselle, there are no two natures alike, yet all are born with a small portion of Divinity within them, which we call the Soul.  It is a mere spark smouldering in the centre of the weight of clay with which we are encumbered, yet it is there.  Now this particular germ or seed can be cultivated if we will—­that is, if we desire and insist on its growth.  As a child’s taste for art or learning can be educated into high capabilities for the future, so can the human Soul be educated into so high, so supreme an attainment, that no merely mortal standard of measurement can reach its magnificence.  With much more than half the inhabitants of the globe, this germ of immortality remains always a germ, never sprouting, overlaid and weighted down by the lymphatic laziness and materialistic propensities of its shell or husk—­the body.  But I must put aside the forlorn prospect of the multitudes in whom the Divine Essence attains to no larger quantity than that proportioned out to a dog or bird—­I have only to speak of the rare few with whom the soul is everything—­those who, perceiving and admitting its existence within them, devote all their powers to fanning up their spark of light till it becomes a radiant, burning, inextinguishable flame.  The mistake made by these examples of beatified Humanity is that they too often sacrifice the body to the demands of the spirit.  It is difficult to find the medium path, but it can be found; and the claims of both body and soul can be satisfied without sacrificing the one to the other.  I beg your earnest attention, mademoiselle, for what I say concerning the rare few with whom the soul is everything.  You are one of those few, unless I am greatly in error.  And you have sacrificed