The Mystic sprang from bed and groped along the wall for the electric-light button, but could not find it. Then he groped for the window and his hand touched the glass.
"It is fastened," he cried; "I can't find the catch. It will not move up or down."
"I shall die," groaned the Asthmatic, "unless I have air. Break the window-pane!"
So the Mystic felt for the footstool, over which he had just stubbed his toes, and used the corner of it to smash the glass.
"Ah," said the Asthmatic, with a long sigh of relief, "I am better. There is nothing like fresh air."
Then they all went to sleep again.
The morning roused them slowly, and they lay on their backs looking around the room. The windows were closed and the shades drawn.
But the glass door of the bookcase had a great hole in it!
"You see!" said the Mystic. "It was the faith cure. The Oversoul cured you."
"Not at all," said the Sceptic. "It was the doubt cure. The way to get rid of a thing is to doubt it."