“Yes,” cried Bracy eagerly. “It would keep me from thinking so, and wearing myself out with dread of my helpless future.”
“Well, listen to reason,” said the Doctor cheerily. “Your helpless future, in which you see yourself a miserable cripple, old before your time, and utterly useless—”
“Yes, yes,” cried Bracy eagerly; “it is all that which keeps me back.”
“Of course; and what is all that but a kind of waking ill-dream, which you invent and build up for yourself? Come, you must own that.”
“Yes,” said Bracy, with a sigh; “but I am very bad, Doctor.”
“Were.”
“I am still; but I will and can fight harder—”
“No, no; not as you did this morning,” said the Doctor, smiling.
“I say, I can fight harder if you tell me that I may recover from these terrible fits.”
“I tell you, then, that you may and will. There, you’ve talked enough. Shake hands, and I’ll go.”