If I were to rise and go forward—­and I now felt something like a continued impulse, in spite of relaxations and revolts—­I must master this knowledge, it must be my guide, form the basis of my creed.  I—­who never had had a creed, never felt the need of one!  For lack of one I had been rudely jolted out of the frail shell I had thought so secure, and stood, as it were, naked and shivering to the storms, staring at a world that was no function of me, after all.  My problem, indeed, was how to become a function of it....

I resolved upon a course of reading, but it was a question what books to get.  Krebs could have told me, if he had lived.  I even thought once of writing Perry Blackwood to ask him to make a list of the volumes in Krebs’s little library; but I was ashamed to do this.

Dr. Strafford still remained with me.  Not many years out of the medical school, he had inspired me with a liking for him and a respect for his profession, and when he informed me one day that he could no longer conscientiously accept the sum I was paying him, I begged him to stay on.  He was a big and wholesome young man, companionable, yet quiet and unobtrusive, watchful without appearing to be so, with the innate as well as the cultivated knowledge of psychology characteristic of the best modern physicians.  When I grew better I came to feel that he had given his whole mind to the study of my case, though he never betrayed it in his conversation.

“Strafford,” I said to him one morning with such an air of unconcern as I could muster, “I’ve an idea I’d like to read a little science.  Could you recommend a work on biology?”

I chose biology because I thought he would know something about it.

“Popular biology, Mr. Paret?”

“Well, not too popular,” I smiled.  “I think it would do me good to use my mind, to chew on something.  Besides, you can help me over the tough places.”

He returned that afternoon with two books.

“I’ve been rather fortunate in getting these,” he said.  “One is fairly elementary.  They had it at the library.  And the other—­” he paused delicately, “I didn’t know whether you might be interested in the latest speculations on the subject.”

“Speculations?” I repeated.

“Well, the philosophy of it.”  He almost achieved a blush under his tan.  He held out the second book on the philosophy of the organism.  “It’s the work of a German scientist who stands rather high.  I read it last winter, and it interested me.  I got it from a clergyman I know who is spending the winter in Santa Barbara.”

“A clergyman!”

Strafford laughed.  “An ‘advanced’ clergyman,” he explained.  “Oh, a lot of them are reading science now.  I think it’s pretty decent of them.”

I looked at Strafford, who towered six feet three, and it suddenly struck me that he might be one of the forerunners of a type our universities were about to turn out.  I wondered what he believed.  Of one thing I was sure, that he was not in the medical profession to make money.  That was a faith in itself.