"Letitia," I said, next morning, as we walked townward, "you are ill."
"Nonsense, Bertram," she replied.
"You are ill," I replied, firmly. "You are pale as a ghost. Your hands tremble. Your walk—"
"I was never stronger in my life," she interposed, and as if she had long expected this little crisis and was prepared for it. "Never, I think, have I felt so tranquil, so serene. My mind—"
"I am not speaking of your mind," I said. "I am talking of your body."
"Bertram," she said, excitedly, "that is just your error—not yours alone, but the whole world's error. This thinking always of earthly—"
"Now, Letitia," I protested, "I have been a doctor—"
"Illness," she continued, "is a state of mind. To think one is ill, is to be ill, of course, but to think one is well, is to be well, as I am—well, I mean, in a way I never dreamed of!—a way so sure, so beautiful, that I think sometimes I never knew health before."
"Letitia," I said, sharply, "what nonsense is this?"