"Miss Dora," said the doctor, "I am delighted. Actually you are cutting your new mind. Before you can realize the fact, you will have it all full-formed and ready for use. Let me see; this is the ninth of March; bad roads; bad weather; no walking; no driving; nothing inspiriting; disagreeable in doors and out. I think the full change will occur within three weeks. By the end of this month, you will not only have forgotten that your milk mind has troubled you, but that the world was ever blank, and that your joys and affections were ever on the point of passing away from you. You will then be the brave-hearted, bright-spirited woman that Nature intended you to be, after she had passed you through some of the preliminary stages."
The flush on the face of Miss Dora gradually passed away as she listened to this speech.
She rose. "Doctor," said she, "I like that better than what you have been saying. Anyway, I shall not be angry, and I shall wait three weeks and see what happens, and if everything is all wrong then, the responsibility will rest on you."
"Very good," said he, "I agree to the terms. It is a bargain."
Now Miss Dora seemed troubled again. She took up her muff, put it down, drew her furs about her, then let them fall again, and finally turned toward the physician, who had also risen.
"Doctor," she said, "I don't want you to put this visit in the family bill. I wish to—to attend to it myself. How much should I pay you?" and she took out her little pocketbook.
Dr. Tolbridge put his hands behind him.
"This case is out of my usual line of practice," he said, "and my ordinary schedule of fees does not apply to it. For advice such as I have given you I never charge money. I take nothing but cats."
"What!" exclaimed Miss Dora; "what on earth do you mean?"
"I mean cats," he replied, "or rather kittens. I am very fond of kittens, and at present we have not one in the house. So, if you have a kitten—"