fied to have had your share. There would be no terror in death, since it would take none but those who could say, 'I have had enough.' That day would surely come to every one. There is nothing—not research and discovery, not the beauty of Nature, not love and pleasure, not art, not flowers and sunshine and perpetual youth—of which we should not in time grow weary. Science cannot alter the Laws of Nature. Of all things there must be an end. But she can prolong; she can avert; she can—Yes, my friends. This is my Discovery; this is my Gift to Humanity; this is the fruit, the outcome of my life; for me this great thing has been reserved. Science can arrest decay. She can make you live—live on—live for centuries—nay, I know not—why not?—she can, if you foolishly desire it, make you live forever."
Now, when these words were spoken there fell a deep silence upon the crowd. No one spoke; no one looked up; they were awed; they could not realize what it meant that would be given them; they were suddenly relieved of a great terror, the constant dread that lies in man's heart, ever present, though we conceal it—the dread of Death; but they could not, in a moment, understand that it was given.
But the Director sprang to his feet, and grasped his brother physicist by the hand.
"Of all the sons of Science," he said, solemnly, "thou shalt be proclaimed the first and best."
The assembly heard these words, but made no sign. There was no applause—not a murmur, not a voice. They were stricken dumb with wonder and with awe. They were going to live—to live on—to live for centuries, nay, why not?—to live forever!
"You all know," the Professor continued, "how at a dinner a single glass of champagne revives the spirits,
