said I, "as a matter of fact, the pain does seem to
be in my wisdom teeth."

"So-called," said he, quietly. "More tooth than wisdom, generally. And
not in your throat?" continued the doctor.

[Illustration: I VISIT AESCULAPIUS]

"Not a bit of it," said I. My throat seemed strong enough for a
political campaign in which I was principal speaker. "It's _all_ in my
teeth."

"Upper or lower?" he asked, with a laugh, and then he gazed fixedly at
me.

I had not realized that I had upper teeth until he spoke, and a
shudder went through me as a semicircle of pain shot through my upper
jaw.

"Upper," I retorted, with some surliness.

"Verging a trifle on your cheekbones, and thence to the optic nerve,"
he said, calmly, still gazing into my soul. "I'll try your sight.
Look at that card over there, and tell me--"

"What nonsense is this, doctor?" I cried, angry at his airy manner and
manifest control over my symptoms. "There is nothing the matter with
my eyes. They're as good as any one of the million eyes of your friend
the Argus."

"Then what, in the name of Jupiter, is the matter with you?" he
ejaculated, elevating his eyebrows.

"Nothing at all," said I, sulkily.

AEsculapius threw himself on the sofa and roared with laughter.

"Perfectly splendid!" he said, when he had recovered from his mirth.
"Perfectly splendid! You are the best example of the value of my
system I've had in a long time. Now let me show you something," he
added. "Put these glasses on."

He took the glasses from his nose and put them astride of mine, and
lead me before a mirror--a cheval-glass arrangement that stood in one
corner of the room.

"Now look yourself straight in the eye," said he.

I did so, and truly it was as if I looked upon the page of a book
printed in the largest and clearest type. I hesitate to say what I saw
written there, since the glass was strong enough to reach not only the
mind itself, but further into the very depths of my subself-consciousness.
On the surface, man thinks well of himself; this continues in modified
intensity to his self-consciousness, but the fool does not live who,
in his subself-consciousness, the Holy of Holies of Realization, does
not know that he is a fool.

"Take 'em off," I cried, for they seemed to burn into the very depths
of my soul.

"That isn't necessary," said AEsculapius, kindly. "Just turn your eyes
away from the glass a moment and they won't bother you. I want to cure
this tr