A convulsive shiver passed through her, she uttered a little gasp, then closed her eyes, and opened them with her natural smile.
"Why, I did go to sleep, after all, didn't I?" she asked, softly.
"Yes, and talked and looked like the very deuce. Let's see what you are reading." He took the book from her hands, but neither on the open page nor upon any preceding could he find words similar to those she had spoken.
"What were you dreaming of when I spoke to you?" he inquired.
"I didn't dream—at least, I don't remember. Did you speak?" She yawned and arose. "I'll go to bed, Tom," she said. "Lock me up."
Beverton read the book, after she had retired, from the beginning to the opened page; then sat down and pondered far into the night.
Next evening, on his way home, he visited a physician—a personal friend, who had once met Mrs. Beverton—and to him he stated the trouble.
"Self-hypnotized," said the doctor, "by the usual method—staring at a bright object. Practically in the same condition as when sleep-walking. You can cure her by suggestion."
"How—what do you mean?"
"Don't you know that a somnambulist will always obey orders—will believe anything that is spoken in a firm, commanding tone, the same as though hypnotized?"