"The balm that is to cure me does not exist," said he.
"My method does not depend on material substances. You shall see. In an hour's time you shall have actual experience of my treatment. Your cases are very much alike."
"How so?"
"They are due to the same cause. The hidden seat of the evil in both your cases is the mind, both of you are suffering from terrible bereavements, you have lost your wife and two children, the old man his daughter and two grandchildren."
The sick old man drew a long and deep sigh at these words, but his eyes still remained closed. Széphalmi sat down on a chair beside him, hid his face in his hands, and fell a weeping.
The young unknown continued to draw his fingers softly round the rim of the glass, producing a ghostly sort of low wailing sound.
"The water will become magnetic before long," said he, "and then we shall see."
"Yet," pursued he, "there is an even more evil malady than the sorrow of bereavement, and that is—remorse. You are both troubled by the bitter memories of an irrevocable past. You did not always love your children, your grandchildren, as you do now that they are both dead—and this is the greatest affliction of all."
At these words the sick Hétfalusy opened his eyes and gazed at the speaker in astonishment.