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are its cause. These globules are alive, they multiply, they force themselves into every part of the moth's body. Where we made our mistake was to examine only a little part of the moth, we only looked under the skin of the moth's belly—we've got to grind up the whole beast and examine all of it. Then if we do not find the globules we can safely use the eggs for next year's worms!"

The committee tried the new scheme and it worked—the next year they had fine worms that gave them splendid yields of silk.

Pasteur saw now that the little globule, the cause of the pébrine, came from outside the worm—it did not rise by itself inside the worm—and he went everywhere, showing the farmers how to keep their healthy worms away from all contact with leaves that sick worms had soiled. Then suddenly he fell a victim of a hemorrhage of the brain—he nearly died, but when he heard that work of building his new laboratory had been stopped, frugally stopped in expectation of his death, he was furious and made up his mind to live. He was paralyzed on one side after that—he never got over it—but he earnestly read Dr. Smiles' book, "Self Help," and vigorously decided to work in spite of his handicap. At a time when he should have stayed in his bed, or have gone to the seaside, he staggered to his feet and limped to the train for the South, exclaiming indignantly that it would be criminal not to finish saving the silkworms while so many poor people were starving! All Frenchmen, excepting a few nasty fellows who called it a magnificent gesture, joined in praising him and adoring him.

For six years Pasteur struggled with the diseases of silkworms. He had no sooner settled pébrine than another malady of these unhappy beasts popped up, but he knew his problem and found the microbe of this new disease much more quickly. Tears of joy were in the voice of old Dumas now as he thanked his dear Pasteur—and the mayor of the town of Alais talked enthusiastically of raising a golden statue to the great Pasteur.