"Yes," she replied, with a light laugh. "I said in church that I would love, honour, and obey Will. I don't love him; I don't honour him; and I don't mean to obey him."
She laughed again as she said this, gave me a fixed, long gaze, and looking towards the door said, in an eager voice:—
"You have always been a kind friend to me. You were very glad when I was engaged."
Certainly I was," I replied, with some indignation. "Your husband is about the best fellow in the world."
"Oh, no," she replied. "He is not good at all."
I knew she was in no state to argue with, so I continued:—
"We won't discuss this subject just at present. You are not very well, and I am going to prescribe certain medicines for you. It is sometimes quite possible for people to be ill without being aware of it themselves. That is your case at the present moment. You are ill, and you must remain quiet, and you must take the necessary medicines which I am going to prescribe. If you are very good, and do exactly what I tell you, you will soon find all that now troubles and perplexes you vanish away, and you will be the happy girl who stood in church and promised to obey, to love, and honour the kindest of husbands."
There was something in my voice which seemed to rouse her. She tried to look at me steadily, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I don't want to feel as I do," she said, suddenly. "I should like to get back my old self; only I cannot, in the least, remember what it was like. My present self worries me, and yet I do not know why it should."
"Oh, it is quite accountable," I replied. "You are suffering from a sort of physical shock, which causes you to forget many things. Now keep perfectly quiet; I want to examine your heart."
I did so. I found the action of the heart decidedly weak and irregular. I then looked into my patient's eyes. The pupils were not working properly. Altogether her condition was the reverse of satisfactory. She was very weak, and there was not the least doubt that for the time the brain was affected.
I soothed and cheered her as well as I could, and then returned to her husband.
"Well," he said. "What do you think of her?"
"She is in a queer condition," I replied. "There is no use mincing matters, Will—just at present your wife is not accountable for her actions."
"You don't mean to tell me that she is out of her mind?" he asked, in a strained voice.
"I feel convinced," I replied, "that the present condition of things is only temporary. Mrs. Raymond will soon recover her mental equilibrium; at least, I fondly hope so. In the meantime we must have a nurse for her."
"We cannot get a nurse in these parts."
"Very well, I will telegraph to town and have one sent down immediately."
"No, I won't let you do that," replied Raymond. "Maggie is very peculiar and fastidious. She won't have any nurse. You must choose one in all particulars fitted to her case, and until she arrives, I am more than ready and willing to attend to her myself."
"No," I answered. "You cannot do that. In your wife's present condition your presence only excites her."
Will looked startled for a moment, and I saw gloom gathering on his brow.
"Very well," he said, after a pause. "I must not gainsay the doctor, but in any case I insist on your personally selecting Maggie's nurse."
"As you please," I answered. "I will stay with you until to-night; then if Mrs. Raymond continues to remain much as she is at present, and no fresh symptoms of a grave character appear, I must return to my patients in town; for many of them are in a critical condition. But I will promise to send you down the best and most suitable nurse I can possibly find, by the first train in the morning."
"Thanks," replied Raymond. He looked depressed, as well he might. He began to walk restlessly up and down in front of the fire.
"I wish you could stay yourself," he said, suddenly. "So do I, my dear fellow; but that is impossible."
"If it is a case of money, I can make it worth your while," he continued. I interrupted hastily.
"No," I answered, "money does not come into the question at all. I go, because I can do Mrs. Raymond no good—no good whatever—by remaining."
Raymond was silent. His rugged face looked old. His brow had heavy lines across it. He pushed his hair, already
