"There is really no cause for your
distress," he said. "You are frightening
yourself quite needlessly."

"You said I was not well," she answered,
in a tone of peevish reproach.

"You have no ailment that a little care
and common sense will not cure. You do
not live a healthy life. You do not take
sufficient exercise. You were accustomed
in your girlhood to walk, and to be out in
the open air. There is something febrile
and over-strained about you."

"I can't walk. You see that I am easily
tired—that I want support. I have no
appetite. I am not so strong as I was."

"You will never be stronger unless you
shake off the habits of inertness and
languor that have crept over you."

"I am not languid when there is
anything to interest or excite me. But what
am I to do when I feel bored to death?"

"Boredom" was not a disease with which
Mr. Plew's village practice had made him
familiar.

"If you were to get up at six o'clock,
and take a walk before breakfast, I am
sure you would feel the benefit of it," said
he, very simply.

Veronica's panic was passing away. A
disorder that could be alleviated by getting
up and walking out at six o'clock in the
morning was evidently, she conceived, not
of an alarming nature.

"My dear Mr. Plew," she said, with a
little faint smile, "you are accustomed to
prescribe for Shipley constitutions. Now,
Shipley people, amongst other charming
qualities, are famous for robustness; if I
were to say rude health, you would think I
was malicious. As for me, such violent
proceedings as you speak of would simply
kill me. Can't you give me something to
—keep me up a little? Some—some—
what is the proper technicality?—some
stimulants—isn't that the word?"

"Fresh air is an excellent stimulant: the
best I know."

Veronica looked at his candid, simple
face searchingly. She looked once, and
withdrew her eyes. Then she looked again,
and the second time she waved her hand
as though dismissing something.

"Let us talk no more of my nonsensical
ailments," she said. "I ought to be
ashamed of myself for having brought you
here to listen to the recital of them."

"No, Veronica—I beg pardon. No; do
not say that. I hope you will send for me
whenever you think I can be of use. It
would be more to me than, perhaps, you
can imagine, to know that I was of real
use to you, and that you relied on me."

Her face brightened. This was more
like the tone she had expected from her old
adorer. Poor little Plew! Yes; she really
did like him very much. After all, there
was something touching in his humble
worship.

She made answer with a soft, liquid,
beaming glance of her beautiful eyes:
"My dear, good Mr. Plew—we always
were good friends in the old days, were
we not?—I think I gave you proof once
upon a time that I relied on you. I have
never had an opportunity of saying to you
how grateful I was, and am, and always
shall be, for your forwarding that letter!"

She held out her jewelled hand to him
as she spoke, with a gesture of irresistible
grace and spontaneity. Mr. Plew was not
in the least graceful. He took the slender
white hand for an instant, looked at it as
though it were some frail, precious thing,
which a too rough touch might break or
injure, and then gently let it go again.

He liked to hear her speak so, to hear
her allude to the "old days," and acknowledge
so candidly her obligation regarding
that letter he had sent to Maud (the outer
cover, with its few words addressed to
himself, was treasured in a little rosewood box,
which was the only repository, except the
chest in the surgery containing poisons,
that Mr. Plew ever locked). It showed a
heart still unspoiled, still capable of
generous movements. Poor Mr. Plew!

Veronica saw the impression she had
made. Without conscious and deliberate
duplicity, but from sheer habit and
instinct, she assumed the tone most of all
adapted to win the surgeon's admiration.
He was not quite so meek and so weak, not
quite so easily dazzled by tinsel glories, as
she had been wont to think him. She had
made a little mistake with her airs of
"bonne princesse" and spoiled child.

Now she was all feeling, all candour, all
ingenuous confidence. She had suffered
much, very much. She had too much
pride to appeal to the sympathies of the
envious vulgar. To strangers she
presented a front as cold and impassible as
their own. So few had enough nobility of
nature to be exempt from love of detraction.
Her rank! Well, her husband was
of her own kindred. Her mother had been
a Barletti. Those who grudged her her
social elevation did not know that, in
accepting it, she was but assuming the rank
of her ancestors. But all that was of