“That depends on the nature of the idea, I should imagine,” answered the curate. “Such things sometimes arise merely from the state of the health, and there the doctor is the best help.”
Helen shook her head, and smiled behind her veil a grievous smile. The curate paused, but, receiving no assistance, ventured on again.
“If it be a thought of something past and gone, for which nothing can be done, I think activity in one’s daily work must be the best aid to endurance.”
“Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed Helen—“when one has no heart to endure, and hates the very sunlight!—You wouldn’t talk about work to a man dying of hunger, would you?”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“He wouldn’t heed you.”
“Perhaps not.”
“What would you do then?”
“Give him some food, and try him again, I think.”
“Then give me some food—some hope, I mean, and try me again. Without that, I don’t care about duty or life or anything.”