"Your husband, madam, is mad—as mad as a March hare," said Mr. Moore, as he descended the stairs. "He is, however, in a very dangerous state, it is doubtful if he ever recovers."
"And what can be done for him?"
"Nothing in his present humor without you have him treated as a maniac, which, if I were in your case and in your situation, I most certainly would do."
"Oh, no, no! there is something dreadful in such a charge coming from a wife, though he often appears to me scarcely accountable for his actions; but what can I give him to allay this dreadful fever?"
"I will write you a prescription." This the doctor did on the back of a letter with his pencil, for Elinor could not furnish him with a scrap of paper.
"You must send this to the apothecary. He will make it up."
"What will it cost?"
The doctor smiled. "A mere trifle; perhaps three shillings."
"I have not had such a sum in my possession for the last three years. He will die before he will give it to me."
"Mad, mad, mad," said the doctor, shaking his head. "Well, my dear lady, if he will not give it to save his worthless life, you must steal it from him. If you fail, why let Nature take her course. His death would certainly be your gain."