"You talk like a poet,"--she said--"And of all things in the world I
hate poetry! There!--don't think me cross! Go along and be happy in
your own strange fanciful way! I cannot be other than I am,--Dr.
Brayle will tell you that I'm not strong enough to share in other
people's lives and aims and pleasures,--I must always consider
myself."

"Dr. Brayle tells you that?" I queried--"To consider yourself?"

"Of course he does. If I had not considered myself every hour and
every day, I should have been dead long ago. I have to consider
everything I eat and drink lest it should make me ill."

I rose from my seat beside her.

"I wish I could cure you!" I murmured.

"My dear girl, if you could, you would, I am sure,"--she answered--
"You are very kind-hearted. It has done me good to talk to you and
tell you all my sad little history. I shall get up presently and
have my electricity and feel quite bright for a time. But as for a
cure, you might as well try to cure my father."

"None are cured of any ailment unless they resolve to help along the
cure themselves," I said.

She gave a weary little laugh.

"Ah, that's one of your pet theories, but it's no use to me! I'm