“Very bad symptom indeed, and must be stopped before a relapse! Here, I have cured three prophets and ten poets with this novel specific.”
While thus speaking he had got out his book and a globule. “Agaricus muscarius dissolved in a tumbler of distilled water,—teaspoonful whenever the fit comes on. Sir, it would have cured Milton himself.”
“And now for you, my child,” turning to Helen, “I have found a lady who will be very kind to you. Not a menial situation. She wants some one to read to her and tend on her; she is old and has no children. She wants a companion, and prefers a girl of your age to one older. Will this suit you?”
Leonard walked away.
Helen got close to the doctor’s ear, and whispered, “No, I cannot leave him now,—he is so sad.”
“Cott!” grunted the doctor, “you two must have been reading ‘Paul and Virginia.’ If I could but stay in England, I would try what ignatia would do in this case,—interesting experiment! Listen to me, little girl, and go out of the room, you, sir.”
Leonard, averting his face, obeyed. Helen made an involuntary step after him; the doctor detained and drew her on his knee.
“What’s your Christian name?—I forget.”
“Helen.”
“Helen, listen. In a year or two you will be a young woman, and it would be very wrong then to live alone with that young man. Meanwhile you have no right to cripple all his energies. He must not have you leaning on his right arm,—you would weigh it down. I am going away, and when I am gone there will be no one to help you, if you reject the friend I offer you. Do as I tell you, for a little girl so peculiarly susceptible (a thorough pulsatilla constitution) cannot be obstinate and egotistical.”