"I fear you will only laugh when I tell you, and call me a silly old fool."
"No, I sha'n't; I promise."
"You must go to bed before eleven every night. You must be up by half-past seven. You must walk or ride every morning, drink no wine, tea, or coffee, eat plain food, and read no novels. You must develop an interest in your household affairs, get a wholesome occupation for every hour of the day, and take no more medicine. When you feel a headache go into the fresh air; when you feel depressed, throw the mood off by finding some work to do."
"But, Doctor, I had almost sooner die than do all that. I could never live in such a routine of the commonplace."
"I know that is very hard, but perhaps it is not all," said the Doctor. "You have no children, Mrs. Sanderson."
"No, thank heaven. I am worried enough without that."
"Unfortunately we are confronted in this world with a certain amount of worry. I think experience proves that it is better to accept the worries nature intended than to create worse ones by trying to circumvent her. However, I see you weary of my preaching. Think it over until Monday, and then I shall give you some more advice provided you think your nerves can bear it."
"You are just as bad as Dr. Thompson."
"Only I have no choir boys and spring bonnets to attract an audience," replied the Doctor, rising to leave. Then he continued in a different tone: "I trust you will pardon what I have said, and even if you don't follow my disagreeable régime, I want you to feel that I gave you the best advice that I could."
The Doctor bade her good-by, and when he was gone she buried her face in the pillows and thought over what he had said. "I never could do all that," she thought; "besides, he is a perfect crank on fresh air and diet. If I thought Roswell would let me, I would go to someone else. I think he is too old to be up with the times, and Mrs. Smythe says Dr. Wimbleton is a perfect dear and helped her from the first day she went to him. O, my poor head, how it does ache!" she called out, half expecting sympathy from the oak book-shelves and the bric-a-brac; then she turned over nervously and continued her restless thinking. "I wish I were dead," she moaned. "So little comes into my life that living it is scarcely worth the trouble. If there were only someone to bring me sympathy. If I could only forget those days when, for a few moments, I felt as other women feel."