It required some persuasion to induce Aunt Amy to consent to see the doctor. Doctors, she had found (with the single exception of Dr. Coombe), were terribly unreasonable. They asked all kinds of questions, and never believed a word of the answers.

"And if I have a doctor," she declared tearfully, "I shall have to go to bed. And if I go to bed who will get supper? The sprigged tea-set—"

"But you won't need to go to bed, Auntie. You aren't ill, you know; just a little bit upset. If you feel like lying down why not use the sofa in my room? And even if you do not wish to see the doctor for yourself," Esther's tone was reproachful, "think what a good opportunity it is for us to get an opinion about mother. Don't you remember saying just the other day that you thought mother was foolish to be so nervous about doctors?"

"Yes, but she needn't stay in the room, need she, Esther? I don't want her in the room. She laughs. But I would like to lie on your sofa and if I must see him I had better wear my lavender cap."

"Yes, dear, and you will not mind mother staying—"

"But I do mind, Esther. And anyway she can't," triumphantly, "because she has gone out."

"Gone out? Mother? But she knew the doctor was coming and she promised—"

"Yes, I know. She said to tell you she had fully intended staying in until the doctor had been, but she had forgotten about the Ladies' Aid Meeting. She simply had to go to that. She said you could attend to the doctor quite as well as she could and that it was all nonsense anyway, because there was nothing whatever the matter with me." The faded eyes filled with tears again and Esther had much ado to prevent their imminent overflow.

She settled Aunt Amy upon the couch and adjusted the lavender cap without further betrayal of her own feelings, but in her heart she was both angry and hurt. Her mother had known of the doctor's intended visit and had distinctly promised to remain in to receive him. What would Dr. Callandar think? It was most humiliating.

The Ladies' Aid Meeting was plainly an excuse for a deliberate shirking of responsibility. Or, worse still, Mrs. Coombe, divining Esther's double motive, may have left the house purposely to escape seeing the doctor on her own account. Esther well knew the stubbornness of which she was capable upon this one question, and the cunningness of it was like her. She had made no objections; she had not troubled to refuse or to argue—she had simply gone out.

Well, it was something to feel that she, Esther, had done what she could. At any rate, there was no time to worry, for the doctor was already coming up the walk.

Esther hurried to the door. It relieved her to find that he seemed to expect her, and showed no offence on realising that the patient's nearest relative was not at home to receive him. Indeed, he seemed to think of no one save the patient herself. His manner, Esther thought, was perfect. Had she been a little older she might have suspected such perfection, deducing from it that Callandar, like herself, was subconsciously aware of an interest in the situation not altogether professional. But the girl made no deductions and certainly there was no trace of any embarrassment in the doctor's way with his patient. It took only a moment for Esther to decide that here, at least, she had done the right thing. She waited only long enough to see the frightened look in Aunt Amy's eyes replaced by one of timid confidence and then, murmuring an excuse, slipped away, leaving them together.

Callandar also waited while the startled eyes grew quiet and then lifted the fluttering hand into his own firm one.

"Creatures of habit, we doctors, aren't we?" he said, smiling. "Always taking people's temperatures."

Aunt Amy ventured upon a vague answering smile.

"I understand," continued the doctor, "that you have reason to fear that you have been poisoned?"

The hand began to flutter again, but quieted as the pleasant, confident voice went on:

"Your niece has told me something of the case but no details. Perhaps you can supply them for me. When exactly did it happen and what kind of poison was it?"

The fluttering hand became quite still and the eyes of Aunt Amy slowly filled with a great amazement. Here was an unbelievable thing—a doctor who did not argue or deny or playfully scold her for "fancies." A doctor who took her seriously and showed every intention of believing what she said. No one, save Dr. Coombe, had ever done that—

"It is always best in these cases to get the details from the patient herself," went on the doctor, encouragingly.

No, he was not laughing! Aunt Amy could detect nothing save the gravest of interest in his kindly eyes. An immense relief stole over her. A relief so great that Callandar, watching, felt his heart grow hot with pity.

"Oh, doctor!" she cried feebly, "I—" a rush of easy tears drowned the rest of the sentence.

Callandar let her cry. He knew the value of those tears. Presently when she grew more quiet he exchanged her soaking bit of cambric for his own more serviceable square. Aunt Amy dried her eyes on it and handed it back as simply as a child.

"Pray excuse me," she begged, "but—the relief! I might have died if you had not come." She went on brokenly. "You see," dropping her voice, "my relatives are queer. They have strange ideas. When I know things quite well they tell me I am mistaken. Mary, my niece, laughs. Even Esther, who tries to help me, thinks I do not know what I am talking about. They all argue in the most absurd manner. If I do not pretend always that I agree with them I have no peace. Sometimes when I tell some of the things I know, Esther looks frightened and says I am not to tell Jane. So I try to keep everything to myself. I don't want the children to be frightened. They are young and ought to be happy. I was happy when I was young—at least, I think it was I. Sometimes I'm not sure whether it wasn't some other girl—I get confused—"

"Don't worry about it," said the doctor calmly. "Or about Miss Esther either. I want to hear all about the poison."

Aunt Amy remembered her precarious condition with a start. Her eyes grew vague.

"I don't know how They put it in," she said. "I didn't see Them, you know. I left my cup of coffee standing while I went to find Jane. I heard her crying. She had cut her finger and when I had bound it up I felt faint, so I foolishly forgot and picked up the coffee and drank it. I wasn't quite myself or I should never have been so careless."

The doctor seemed to appreciate this point. "Did you taste anything in the coffee?" he asked.

"No. Of course They would be too clever for that!"

"And when did you begin to feel ill?"

"Just as soon as I remembered that I had forgotten to pour out a fresh cup." The naÏvetÉ of this statement was quite lost upon the eager speaker.

Esther, who had re-entered the room, opened her lips to improve this opportunity for argument but, meeting the doctor's eye, refrained. Callandar took no notice of the significant admission.

"Where do you feel the pain now?" he asked.

Aunt Amy appeared disturbed.

"Mostly in my head—I—I think." She moved restlessly.

Callandar appeared to consider this.

"But I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "that you really feel very little actual pain. None at all perhaps?"

Aunt Amy admitted that she could not locate any particular pain.

"Weakness is the predominating symptom," went on the doctor. "It is, in fact, a very simple case. All the more serious, of course, for being so simple, if we did not understand it. But now that we know exactly what is wrong we need have no fear."

Aunt Amy's vague eyes began to shine.

"Shall we get the better of them again?" she asked eagerly.

"We certainly shall," kindly. "Miss Esther, I am going to leave some medicine for your aunt; these little pink tablets. She must have one every two hours and two at bedtime. When she has taken them for two days I shall send something else. You will notice an improvement almost at once. Even in an hour or two, perhaps. By the end of the week all medicine may be discontinued."

He crushed a little pink tablet in a spoon, mixed it with water, and watched the old lady while she eagerly swallowed it.

"There!" he exclaimed. "That is the beginning! All we need now is a little rest and quiet. Nothing to excite the patient and a tablet regularly every two hours." He arose, affecting not to see Aunt Amy's grateful tears. "And of course," he added as if by an afterthought, "They won't know anything about this. They will think that, having taken the coffee, the result is certain. They will take for granted that They have finished you, in fact! So cheer up, it is worth a little illness to be rid of the fear of Them forever."

A lightning flash of hope lit up the worn face upon the pillow. "Oh,
Doctor! Do you really think I am free?"

"Sure of it."

Aunt Amy sank back with a long sigh; her lined face grew suddenly peaceful. Esther, who had observed the little scene with wonder, said nothing, but taking the tablets, kissed her Aunt, and led the way out in silence.

"Well?"

As they stood together in the hall she could see the amused twinkle in the doctor's eye.

"I don't like it! You lied to her!"

"So I did," cheerfully.

"These tablets," holding up the glass vial, "what are they?"

"Tonic."

"And the medicine which you are going to send later?"

"More tonic."

"But she thinks—you gave her to understand that they are the antidote for the poison which you know does not exist."

"No. They are the antidote for a poison which does exist—medicine for a mind diseased."

"It's—it's like taking advantage of a child."

"So it is, exactly. I suppose you have never taken advantage of a child, for the child's good?"

"Certainly not."

"Never told one, gave one to understand, so to speak, that a kiss will cure a bumped head?"

"That's different!"

"Never told your school class during a thunderstorm that lightning never hurts good children?"

"That's very different."

"And yet all the time you know that lightning falls upon the just and unjust equally."

Esther was silent. The doctor laughed.

"I fear we are both sad story-tellers," he said gaily. "But in Aunt Amy's case the fibbing will all be charged to my account, you are merely the nurse. A nurse's duty is to obey orders and not frown (as you are doing now) upon the doctor. You will find that I shall effect a cure. Seriously, I do not believe that you have any idea of what that poor woman has been suffering. If the delusion of living in continual danger can be lifted in any way even for a time, it will make life over for her. You would not really allow a scruple to prevent some alleviation of your Aunt's condition, would you?"

The girl's downcast eyes flashed up to his, startlingly blue.

"No. I would not. I love her. I would tell all the fibs in the world to help her. But all the time I should have a queer idea that I was doing wrong. It would be common sense against instinct."

"Against prejudice," he corrected. "The prejudice which always insists that truth consists in a form of words."

They were now in the cool green light of the living room. Esther stood with her back to the table, leaning slightly backward, supporting herself by one hand. She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes. The doctor felt an impulse of irritation against the absent mother who let the girl outwear her strength.

"My advice to you is not to worry," he said abruptly. "You are tired. More tired than a young girl of your age ought to be. You cannot teach those imps of Satan—I mean those charming children—all day and come back to home cares at night. Will it be possible for me to speak to Mrs. Coombe before I go?"

Watching her keenly he saw that now he had touched the real cause of the trouble.

"I am sorry," began Esther, but meeting his look, the prim words of conventional excuse halted. A little smile curled the end of her lips and she added, "Since she went out purposely to escape you, it is not likely."

"Your mother went out to escape me?" in surprise.

"In your capacity of doctor only. You see," with a certain childish naÏvetÉ, "she hasn't seen you yet. And mother dislikes doctors very much. Oh!" with a hot blush, "you will think we are a queer family, all of us!"

"It is not at all queer to dislike doctors," he answered her cheerfully.
"I dislike them myself. At the very best they are necessary evils."

"Indeed no! And when one is ill it seems so foolish—"

"Is Mrs. Coombe ill?"

"I don't know. I think so. She has headaches. She is not at all like herself. I hoped so much that you would meet her this afternoon, and then she—she went out!"

"And this is really what is troubling you, and not Aunt Amy?"

"Yes. You see, Aunt Amy has been quite all right until the last two days. But mother—that has been troubling us a long time."

"How long?"

"Almost since father died—a year ago."

"But—don't you think that if Mrs. Coombe were really ill her prejudice would disappear? People do not suffer from choice, usually."

"No. That is just what puzzles me!" She did indeed look puzzled, very puzzled and very young.

"If I could help you in any way?" suggested Callandar. "You may be worrying quite needlessly."

"Do people ever consult you about their mothers behind their mother's back?"

"Often. Why not?"

"Only that it doesn't seem natural. Grown-up people—"

"Are often just as foolish as anybody else!"

"Besides, I doubt if I can make you understand." Now that the ice was broken Esther's voice was eager. "I know very little of the real trouble myself. It seems to be just a general state of health. But it varies so. Sometimes she seems quite well, bright, cheerful, ready for anything! Then again she is depressed, nervous, irritable. She has desperate headaches which come on at intervals. They are nervous headaches, she says, and are so bad that she shuts herself up in her room and will not let any of us in. She will not eat. I—I don't know very much about it, you see."

"You know a little more than that, I think, perhaps when you know me better?—It is, after all, a matter of trusting one's doctor."

"I do trust you. But feelings are so difficult to put into words. And the greatest dread I have about mother's illness is only a feeling, a feeling as if I knew, without quite knowing, that the trouble is deeper than appears. Jane feels it too, so it can't be all imagination. It is caused, I think, by a change in mother herself. She seems to be growing into another person—don't laugh!"

"I am not laughing. Please go on."

"Well, one thing more tangible is that the headaches, which seem to mark a kind of nervous crisis, are becoming more frequent. And the medicine—"

"But you told me that she took no medicine!"

"Did I? Then I am telling my story very badly. She has some medicine which she always takes. It is a prescription which my father gave her a few months before he died. She had a bad attack of some nervous trouble then which seems to have been the beginning of everything. But that time she recovered and it was not until after father's death that the headaches began again. Father's prescription must, long ago, have lost all effect, or why should the trouble get worse rather than better? But mother will not hear a word on the subject. She will take that medicine and nothing else."

"Do you know what the medicine is?"

"No. Father used to fill it for her himself. She says it is a very difficult prescription and she never has it filled in town, always in the city."

"But why? Taylor, here, is quite capable of filling any prescription. He is a most capable dispenser."

"Yes—I know. But mother will not believe it."

"And you say it does her no good whatever?"

"She thinks that it does. She has a wonderful belief in it. But she gets no better."

The doctor looked very thoughtful.

"She will not allow you to try any kind of compress for her head?"

"No. She locks her door. And I am sure she suffers, for sometimes when I have gone up hoping to help I have heard such strange sounds, as if she were delirious. It frightens me!"

"Does she talk of her illness?"

"Never, and she is furious if I do. She says she is quite well and indeed no one would think that anything serious was wrong unless they lived in the house. Any one outside would be sure that I am worrying needlessly. Am I, do you think?"

"I can't think until I know more. But from what you tell me, it looks as if this medicine she is taking might have something to do with it. If it does no good, it probably does harm. Perhaps it was never intended to be used as she is using it. Otherwise, as you say, the attacks would diminish. At the same time a blind faith in a certain medicine is not at all uncommon. One meets it constantly. Also the prejudice against consulting a physician. It is probable that Mrs. Coombe does not realise that she is steadily growing worse. Could you let me examine the medicine?"

Esther hesitated.

"It is kept locked up. But, I might manage it. If I asked her for it she would certainly refuse. I—I should hate to steal it," miserably.

"I see. Well, try asking first. It is just a question of how far one has the right to interfere with another's deliberately chosen course of action. The medicine is probably injurious, even dangerous. I should warn her, at least. If she will do nothing and you still feel responsible I should say that you have a moral right to have your own mind reassured upon the matter."

Esther smiled. "I believe I feel reassured already. Perhaps I have been foolishly apprehensive and it never occurred to me that the medicine might be at fault; at the worst I thought it might be useless, not harmful. If I could only manage to have you see it without taking it! There must be a way. I'll think of something and let you know."

"Do." The doctor picked up his hat for the second time. He was genuinely interested. He had not expected to find a problem of any complexity in sleepy Coombe. The cases of Aunt Amy and the peculiar Mrs. Coombe seemed to justify his staying on. It was pleasant also to help this charming young girl—although that, naturally, was a secondary consideration!

Esther ran upstairs with a lightened heart.