have just alighted from the carriage," answered Frank in
astonishment.

The doctor walked up and down the room, and Frank saw his face growing
darker.

"You disturb me, good friend. How is Richard?"

"Bad, very bad! And it is all your fault. You gave Richard those
materialistic books which I threw out of the window. He has read the
trash--not read, but studied it; and now we have the consequences."

"Pardon me, doctor. I did not give my son those books. He was passing
the window when you threw them out, and took them to his room."

"You knew that! Why did you leave him the miserable trash?"

"I had no idea of the danger of these writings. Explain yourself
further, I entreat."

"You must first see your son. But I bind it on your conscience to use
the greatest precaution. Do not show the least surprise. We have to
deal with a dangerous disorder. Do not say a word about his changed
appearance. Then come back to me again."

Greatly disturbed, the father passed to the room of his son. Richard
sat on the sofa gazing at the floor. His cheeks had lost their bloom,
his face was emaciated, and his eyes deeply sunken. Vogt's
_Physiological Letters_ lay open near him. He did not rise quickly and
joyfully to kiss his father, as was his custom. He remained sitting,
and smiled languidly at him. Herr Frank, grieved and perplexed, sat
down near him, and took occasion to pick up the book:

"How are you, Richard?"

"Very well, as you see."

"You are industrious. What book is this?"

"A rare book, father--a remarkable book. One learns there to know what
man is and what he is not. Until now, I did not know that cats, dogs,
monkeys, and all animals were of our race. Now I know; for it is
clearly demonstrated in that book."

"You certainly do not believe such absurdities?"

"Believe? I believe nothing at all. Faith ends where proof begins."

Herr Frank read the open page.

"All this sounds very silly," said he. "Vogt asserts that man has no
soul, and proves it from the fact that men become idiotic. If the
functions of the brain are disturbed, the soul ceases, says Vogt. He
therefore concludes that the spirit consists in the brain. The man must
have been crazy when he wrote that. I am no scholar; but I see at the
first glance how false and groundless are Vogt's inferences. Every
reasonable man knows that the brain is the instrument of the mind,
which enables it to participate in the world of sense; now, when the
instrument