"I've never been so happy anywhere," the young man went on in his
eager way, "since--since my own home was broken up. I'd stay if you
would let me, if there were twenty--I--I mean, of course it will be
delightful to--may I have another muffin, please? Thanks!" Geoffrey
had broken short off, being a person of absolute honesty.

"I trust your niece is not seriously out of health," he said, in
conclusion, with his most professional air. "Is any malady indicated,
or merely overfatigue?"

Miss Phoebe put on her spectacles and took up the letter. "There is
a word," she said, "that I did not understand, I must confess. If
you will allow me, Doctor Strong, I will read you a portion of my
brother's remarks. A--yes! 'Vesta seems very far from well. She cries,
and will not eat, and she looks like a ghost. The doctor calls it
neurasthenia.'"

Doctor Strong uttered an exclamation. Miss Phoebe looked up in
dismay.

"It is nothing contagious, I trust, Doctor Strong?"

"No! no! nothing of the kind. Go on, please! any more symptoms?"

"I think not. She has no appetite, he says, and does not sleep well.
He says nothing of any rash." Miss Phoebe looked anxiously at the
young doctor. To her amazement, he was leaning forward, muffin in
hand, his face wearing its brightest and most eager look.