THE LEGACY.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXIX, Issue 10765, 13 May 1911, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE LEGACY.

(By Josephine Daskain Bacon.)

I It was Dr Stanchon that got me the case. He 'phoned me to drop in at the office and a patient of mine took me around in her car; I'd been shopping with her all the morning. She had just invited me to go out to her country place for a few days, and I was quite pleased with the "idea, for I was a little tired. I was just off a hard pneumonia case that had been pretty sad in lots of ways, and I felt a little blue. It's an awfully funny thing, but nurses aren't suppose to have any feelings; when that poor girl died [ I felt as bad as if it had been my own [sister, almost. She was lovely. But .when the doctor asked if I was free, of course I had to say yes, though my suit case was all packed for the country. "That's good," he said, "for I specially want you. It's nothing to do, and' you'll enjoy it, you're such a motor fiend. There's a family I'm looking after wants a nurse to go along on a tour through the country—New England, I believe. They've got a big, dressy car and they expect to be gone anywhere from two weeks to a month, if the weather's reasonably good." ""What do they want of a nurse?" I. said.

"Oh, they just want one along, in case of anything happening," he said. "They can afford it, so why shouldn't they have it?" Well, that sounded all right, and yet I got the idea that it wasn't the real reason somehow. I don't know why. Those things are queer. Of course, there was no reason why it shouldn't be so. I spent a month on a private yacht, one summer, just to be there in Gase of sickness, and nobody wanted me all the time we were gone, for a minute. As a matter of fact, the lady's maid took care of me the first three days out! But I never happened to be asked on a motor trip in that way, and it seemed a little different. For, of course you could pick up a nurse almost anywhere, if you wanted one, on that sort of a tour, and every place in the tonneau counts. ■.

"Isn't there anything the matter with any of them?" I asked. "What a suspicious lot you nurses are!" he said, with his queer little chuckle (all the young doctors try to imitate it in the hospital). "The daughter's a little nervous, that's all. It's for her they're taking the trip, to give her a change." "Now, look here, Dr Stanchon," I said. "I'm here to tell you I don't want any of your old dope cases, and I might just as well say so first as last. That last young man of yours was about all I wanted. He was a sweet creature, wasn't he?" This probably sounds very fresh to you, but everybody knows me: I speak right out, and if you want me, you have to stand it! And the way I slaved over that boy, and he getting morphine from his valet right along—it was simply disgusting. "It's nothing like that —nothing at all," said he. "Don't get so excited!". "Oh, very well," I said, "then suppose it's melancholia. Not for mine, if you please. Perhaps you remember that charming woman that jumped out of. the window? I'm no clairvoyant, and that was enough for me, thank J' OU -" T •> ! "You're getting saucy, Jessop, lie said, "hut it's not melancholia. But you certainly had a hard time with that one." And I should say I did. The foxy thing was as good as gold for three weeks, minded everything I said, fairly ate out of my hand, and got us so that we all believed she did better for me alone than when I had help handy. Of course I kept my eye on her, but nevertheless, the other nurse about gave -jp the job aud used to be off learning French from the governess they had, most of the time. So when madam got us where she wanted us, she tied me to the door knob and jumped out of the window before my eyes. And I can tell you the thirty dollars a week that would get me on a case like that again never left the Treasury! _ "I assure you it's not that at all, he said. "It's a case of nerves, that's nil." , ■ "Nerves! nerves!" I repeated. (1 was pretty snippy, I suppose). "That's all right for the family, doctor, but what's the matter with her? I've got to know, haven't I, some time?"

"Well, I must say you nurses are getting to be the limit," he said. "The truth is, I spoil you. But there's something in what you say, of course. Now here's the whole business. This girl, and she's a sweet, lovely girl, too, had a maid that was a sort of nurse, I believe, when she was a child, and had seen her grow up, and was very much attached to her. and all that. Like all those old servants, she was pretty well spoiled, I imagine, and seems to have had the girl under her thumb. She always slept in the room with her. Now, the maid had had headaches, and used to take all sorts of proprietary medicines for them, coal-tar, of course, and probably had weakened her heart with them. Anyway, she-waked the girl up I one night with her troubles, and the girl gets up and gives her an overdose in the dark, and the maid's dead in her bed in the morning." "Oh, I see," I said, trying to make up for my nasty attitude about that suicidal woman. "So she's blue about it, and thinks she's to blame. An automobile trip will certainly do her a lot of good." "Well, there's a little more to it than that," he said. "As a matter of fact, she a very sensible sort of girl, and she knows she's not to blame really. Of course it was pretty rough, but then the maid had no business to expect her to wait on her, and she ought to have given careful directions about the dose, anyhow. She might have gone oft at any time, and the girl knows it. But the night of the funeral after the girl was in bed, what does she see but the maid sitting on the foot of the bed, looking at her! Of course she was overwrought nervously. Only the trouble is, this was three months ago and she swears' the woman comes every night. She knows it's hallucination optical delusion, anything you like, and sho tries to treat it as such but she s beginning to break down under it, and I don't know what to do. They've travelled they've had her in a sanatorium they've tried auto-suggestion—no use. She's all right through" the day, hut at night, in any bedroom, under any circumstances, this thing aPP e ."s, and she just has' to go through with it till morning." . , , "Why doesn't she have someone sleep with her?" I asked. "It doesn't make the slightest difference," he said. "One week she had a bed between her fathers and mother's, but it was just the same and, of course, they got pretty bad, out ot sympathy. They'd spend two or three ordinary fortunes to cure her, but its one of the cases where money, doesn t talk, unfortunately. So there we are. It rame over me last night that 1 a like to have you try what-you can do with "But. heavens and earth, what good will I he?". I said, "Am I a ghostcatcher? I never knew it.' "No " says he, "but I'm sorry tor the ghost that would run up against you. Jessop—honestly, I am! "Much obliged, I'm sure," I said, "but why doesn't she take her sleep in the daytime? That would fool the ghost from her point of view—woutdn t I'll never forget the look he gave me. - "Listen to me, my girl," he said, running out his jaw m the way he does when he's in dead earnest and means vou to know it. "listen to me, now. If that young woman ever takes to living by night and sleeping by day. I on that account, she's a gone goose! "What do you mean?" said I. • "I mean it's all up with her, and she might as well engage a permanent suite in Jarvyse's little hotel -up the river," he says, very sharp and gruft. "I've saved that off for a month now, but thev can't see it and they're hound to try 'it- Jarvvse himself half advises it, And I'll risk my entire reputation on the result. If she can t fight it out. she's gone." He waited a moment and put- out his jaw. "She's gone/' he said again, ami I felt creepy when lie said it, and 1 tell vou I believed him. f "Well, I'll try my best," I said, and 1 I went on the case the nest morning. [ As soon as I saw her I got the idea i of her I've always had since—that's I me, all over. I went to a palmist's

once with a lot of the other nurses, < and that's the first thing he said to < me. : ! "It's first impressions with you, young woman," he said. "Take care J to trust 'em and act on 'ein, and you'll ; never need to count on the old ladies' J home!" -. ' Well, as soon as I saw Miss Elton she put me in mind of one of Mr C r's ' heroines, looks and clothes and ways and • all, and I've never changed my ' mind. Her things were all plain, but ' they had the loveliest lines, and she always'looked as if she'd been born in s them, they suited her so! Her hair was that heavy, smooth blond kind that £ makes a Marcel wave look too vulgar to * think about, and her eyes and com- j plexion went with it. And with all ] her education she waS as simple as a ' child;_ there were any number of things : she didn't seem to know. She took to c me directly, her mother said, and I , could see she liked though she hardly spoke. She had big rings under T her eyes, and seemed very tired. * She got a nap after lunch—only two i? hours, by the doctor's orders, —and it did seem a shame to wake her, she was ? off so sound, but, of course I did, and \ then we walked for an hour in the park. I didn't talk much at first, £ but I saw that she liked it, and so _ gradually we got on to different sub- s jects, and I think she was entertained. She seemed interested to henr = about the nurses at the hospital and v some of the funny tilings that happen f 1 there, and I could see that she was J; trying to keep her end up —oh, she was * all right, Anne Elton was, and no mis- r 1 take! There was nothing morbid about her; she was trying to help all she could. n When I came down for dinuer there J" 1 was a young man with them, a hand- j 5 some, dark fellow, and he talked a great ™ deal with me —I could see lie was trying to size me up, and it was easy to see u that he was pretty far gone as far as j l Miss Elton was concerned and didn't care who knew it. We must have ai seemed a strange party to anyone who ~ didn't know the ins and outs of the _ thing—only the five of us in that big al dining room with the conservatory opening into-it. The mother was one of a: those stringy, gray New York women cl that always wear diamond dog collars, worried to death and nervous as a Sj witch; Mr Elton —he was Commodore of s; the New York Yacht Club at that time se —fat and healthy and reddish purple in . the fact; young Mr Ferrau (he was sl from an old French family and looked *" it, though a born New Yorker), and me in my white uniform and cap next to 0J Miss Elton, all in white with a big rope of pearls and pearls on her fingers, y* She could wear.a lower cut gown and st look more decent in it than any woman * e I ever saw. All her evening dresses were like that, perfectly plain, just i( . draped around her, with long trains and no trimmings; her skin was like cream-colored marble, not a mark or Urne or vein on it but just one brown mole on the right shoulder-blade, and ol that, as her mother said, was really an m addition: J'< Nobody talked much but Mr Ferrau (>' and the old gentleman there's no .! e doubt he had been a gay old boy in his . day!—for I never do, when I dine with al the family, and the mother was too nervous for anything but complaining of & the food. The Lord knows why, for it sl beat any French restaurant J ever ate sc in, or Delmonico's cither, and Mr Fcr- hi rau and I got quite jolly over how they it put soft boiled eggs into round soufHee tl sort of things with tomato sauce over to them, without spilling the yolks. Then, they asked if I'd play bridge a bit, and x though I don't care for games much, ft I learned to play pretty well with ■my morphine fiend and his mother, so Jj of course I did, and the old gentleman g and I ■played the young couple, and a] Madam Elton crocheted, sitting up it straight as a poker on a gold sofa. n It always makes me laugh when I s l read what some persons' ideas are of b: how rich people amuse themselves. The tl nurses are always jollying me about my eJ rich friends and playing the races and a champagne suppers and high-flying p, generally, and I often wish they could ]j have seen us those evenings at the a Eltons', playing bridge—no money, l\ mind you—and Apollinaris at ten! The f ( Commodore had to have ginger ale, the sl ladies hardly ever drank, and I never ] £ take anything but water when I'm on w a case, so Mr Ferrau had all the'champagne there was at that dinner. At ri ten the masseuse came and rubbed Miss a Elton to sleep, and I got into my bed t] next hers before she went off, not. to a risk disturbing her. There was a night s , lamp in her bath and I could just make g out her long braid on the pillow—the „ pillowcases had real lace insertions and |j the monograms on the sheets were the s i most beautiful I ever saw. I went oif myself about eleven-, for I was determined to act perfectly natural; <] I knew I'd wake if anything was wrong. s And sure enough; all of a sudden I began to dream, a thing I seldom if jj .ever do, and I dreamed' that my suicidal case was clambering over me to jump % out of the window, and woke with a „ start. ' Miss Elton was sitting up in bed star- j, ing at me, breathing short. "Can I do anything for you?" I asked quietly, and she gave a" sort of gasp and said: , "No—l think not, thank you. I'm sorry to bother you, but the doctor told me to." , "Why, of course," said I, "that's what I'm hero for. Do vou see anv- v body?" " " Q I didn't-say, "Do you think you see anybody," for I never put things that e way. "Yes," she said, "she's there— Janet." I glanced about, and of course ] there was no one, and I tell you, I felt ' awfully sorrry for her. It was all the . worse that she was so pretty and calm and decent about it; I didn't like that J a bit. "Where is she?" said I. I "Right on the foot of the bed," she ■ answered in that-, grim, edgy kind of - way_ they always talk when they're . holding on to themselves. - "Why, to tell you the truth, Miss • Elton, I don't see a thing," I said. "Shall I turn on the light?" "No —not ■ yet," she said. "The doctor said to hold out as long as I could. Would you mind putting your hand there?" "Not a bit," said I, and I pawed all over the foot of her bed. Finally, I got up and sat there. "What happens now?" I asked her. "She just moves up and sits farther on," said she. I couldn't think "'of much to say to that, she was so quiet and hopeless, so I waited a while, and finally I said: "Would it help you any to talk about it?" '."' . . : "Oh, if you didn't mind!" she cried out, and then the poor thing began. It makes me tired, the way people treat a patient like that. There was that girl just bottled up, you might as well say, because they all thought it would make her worse to talk about it. Her father, pooh-poohed it, and her mother cried and asked her to send for their rector, and even Dr Stanchon slipped up there, it seemed to me, for he advised her not „to dwell on it. Not dwell on it! Why, how could she help it, I'd like to know? "What I can't understand," she'd say, over and over, "is her coming, when it hurts me so. Why, Janet loved me, Miss Jessop, she loved the ground I walked on, everybody said! And she knows —she must know—that I wouldn't have hurt her for the world. Why should I ? She took care of me since I was six years old —sixteen years! ■ She said to put in those powders out of the box, and I put them in. How could I know?" i "Of course you couldn't know," I said. "She knows that." "Then why does she do this?" she asked, me, so pitifully, just like a child. "Why does she, Miss Jessop?" - "Well, you know, Miss Elton," I said, "you wouldn't believe me if I lied to you, now, would you ? And so I. must tell you that I don't think she does do ; t, none of us do. It's just your idea. If Janet's there, why don't I see her? You're overstrained and excited and you feel that she might not have died " . , „ , "Ah, but I didn't feel that the first night she came!" she broke out, "truly I didn't. Dr Stanchon and all of them said I was very brave and sensible. He talked to me"aad made me see. ;.. If Janet had been sleeping with one of the maids and waked her up and told her not to turn on the light because it hurt her head, but just to give her the powders out of the box, the maid would have done it. I can see that." "Of course." said I. "I didn't blame myself—really." she went on. and suddenly she looked straight to the foot of the bed. "Janet," she said, "the doctor said never to speak to jon, and I never, will

again, but I must, this once. Janet, do you blame me? Are you really .'.-. there? Wiry do you come this way ?■ You're killing rue, you know. I can't sleep. You shouldn't have taken that strong medicine and the doctor told you • not to, you know, yourself. Won't you go, Janet? Not to please Nannie?" ileally, it would hare melted a 6tone to hear her. She was still a moment, and then she began to cry and wiimper and-1 knew that it had made no difference. "She won't go—she won't go," she said, crying, "not even for Nannie!" \vell, I talked to her and read to her and stroked her head, and by two o'clock or so she was off for an hour, and I got a nap myself. But from three till nearly five she was awake . again, and I had to light up the room; slio .said she hardly saw her thenonly felt her, and that wasn't so bad. I don't know that any tiling different took place for a week after that. We went through the same business every night, and I took a nap every afternoon when she did. She told me, what I wasn't much surprised to hear, that she and Mr Ferrau were engaged—or just about —when this precious Janet died, and that now she wouldn't hear of it and had refused to marry him till she was well again. ' And I must say I think she was right. The weather was bad, so we didn't go on the motor trip at all, and that was just as well, for if we had 1 should never have gone up to the hospital that day and never seen old Margaret. She was an old darky woman that used • to come in to clean the wards when they were short of help, and all the' nurses knew her, because she used to tell fortunes with cards and a glass ball she looked into —pretty fair fortunes, too. I've known of some awfully queer things she told different nurses that were only too true. She always like me because I used to jolly her up, and I stopped to speak to her, and she asked me where I was working. "Oh, a grand place on the Avenue, Margaret," I told her, "marble stairs and a fountain in the hall." "What's the sickness, honey?" she asked, for those darkies are always curious. "The patient's got a ghost, Margaret," 1 said, just to see what, she'd say, "and I'm. sorry to say we can't seem to cure hex - ." "Co'se you caynt cure her," says she. "No stuff in bottles for that, honey! What the ghos' want?" "Nothing at all," said I, "it just sits, on the bed and looks." "Laws,, honey, Miss Jessop, but that yer kiue's the wors' of all," says she. staring at me. "She'll jes' have tei leave it onto somebody else, that's all." "Why, can you do that?" I asked. "Sure you con do that," she says. "Was it one that loved her?" "They all say so," said I. She struck her hands together. "I knew it —I knew it!" she cried out. "It's always that-a-way. My ole mudder she had that ha'nt fer ten years, and it was her half-sister that brung her up from six years ole! She'll jes' have ter leave it onto some one." .■ "Well, I'll tell her so," said I, just in joke, of . "You do," says she, solemn as the grave, "you do, Miss Jessop, honey, an' she'll bless you all her life! You get. some one ter say they'd' take that ha'nt off her right w'ile it's there, so it hears 'em, and w'ile there's a witness there ter hear bote sides, an' you hear to ine, now, she'll go free!" "I'll certainly tell her, Margaret," 1 said, and I went on and never gave it another thought, of course. We went up to the Eltons' camp in Maine all of a sudden, for Miss Elton got the idea she'd feel better there, and though it was cold as Greenland, it did seem for a little as if she got'a bit more sleep. But not for long. We slept out on pine-bough beds, around a big fire, for that made more light, and that precious Janet seemed to be fainter, but she was there, just the same, and the poor girl had lost eighteen pounds and I felt pretty blue, about it. It didn't really look as if we got ahead aii3 r , as I told the doctor,' and she hardly spoke all day.' I'm not much for the country, as a rule, it always smells so damp at night, but the Lord knows I'd have lived there a year if it would have helped her any. Then came the night when Mr -Ferrau ran up to see how she was getting along. It was too cold for madam and the commodore, so we were there alone except for a gang of guides and servants and chauffeurs and masseuses. She had a bad night that night, for she got the idea that this lovely Janet was sitting up nearer and nearer to her, and she had it in her head that when' Janet, got to a certain point it would be all up with her. And when I told the doctor that over the telephone, all ho said was: _■ t "Too bad, too bad!" So I knew how he felt. Well, she got talking rather hysterically for her, and I began to wish somebody else was around, when Mr Ferrau jumps out of .his door in the bachelor quarters and dashes over to us in a heavy bath robe, white as a sheet. "For God's sake, Miss Jessop,; do something!" he said, but I just shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to do, you see. She was all bundled irp in a sealskin sleeping bag with a wool helmet over her head; her eyes certainly looked bad. I just about gave up hope, then. The moon made everything a sort of bluish-white and we all must have looked pretty ghastly. "I think I'll give her a little code- / ine," I said. "Just stay here a moment,- will' you?" He knelt down by her bunk while I began to unwind myself from all the stuff you have to get into up there. "Oh, Anne,, my dearest, dearest girl," he said, "if only 1 could take this instead of . you! If only I could see her and you hot!" "Would you —would you really, Philip?" I heard her say. "You do love me, don't you? But that would be too dreadful. I couldn't allow that to happen." "Heavens, my dear girl, I'd take it in a minute, if t could!" he cried. "Oh, ■ Anne, do try to look at it in that way . —try to give it to me! Perhaps.if you used your will power enough-for that "That can't be, Philip," she said, "this is just my fate. I must bear it — • till it kills me. But if it could be, I'll tell you this: I would give it to i you, dearest, for you are stronger, and > maybe a. man could fight it better.' I was off to the main camp then, but > when I got back with the codeine she was asleep with her head on his I shoulder and he kneeled there till four . without moving—he was game, that Mr b Ferrau, and no mistake! ' 1 She slept right through till eight, and , I left them together all day, as much j as I could, and I let her off her nap, r_ she begged so. I could- see from the ] solemn way she talked that she was say- , ing good-bye to him as much as he'd let her. She told me that as soon as t it began to get on her brain really, and , she got worse (we always called it "get--0 ting worse") she was going, up,to Dr Jarvyse's place, and he wasn't to see J her at all. ;, "I want him to remember me —as I d was," she said. It certainly, was tough.. d I used to cry about it, when I was e alone, sometimes. You get awfully fond t of some patients. v He stayed the next night; too, and 1 I took my regular nap from ten to one. Ie I could nearly always count on th'at, ie and I'd got so I woke the moment she' I did. I was fast asleep when I felt her touch "me, and I woke, feeling scared, I for'she almost never did tha/t. ■ "What is it?" I said, half awake. "Is ie she coming nearer?" : ': . ' I. "Miss Jessop, dear-Miss Jessop, she isn't here at all!" she said, shaking and I crying. "I've been awake an hour, and I she hasn't come to-night! Oh, do you 50 think, do you— —" ie "Yes. I d 0,." I said, though I was it pretty excited myself, I can tell you. Be "I believe you're getting better, Miss }d Elton, and now I think I'll have Miss ve> Avidson rub you, and see if we can get through the night all right." . st The; Swedish woman put her right to ly sleep, working over her head, and we m never opened our eyes till nine. One Ie of the guides told me that Mr Ferrau If had been called to the city early, and of had left quietly, not to disturb us, but Id we were both so delighted and yet so se anxious not to be delighted too soon, er that we didn't notice his going much, •id She ate three good meals that day, be- " sides her tea. and we walked five or six miles —I wanted to wear her out. he And that night she slept right through! Ed ) We waited one night more, to be cer- > tain, and then I 'plioned the doctor, id I "Hurray!" he yelled, so I nearly ill dropped tie receiver. "Bully for you!

Keep out for a week and then move ""in—with a Drop the light- in another week.' Then I'll tend : em all "Off to Beaehniount." That wa-, thenLong Island place. Well, it all worked out perfectly. She gained nine pound.-* in three weeks and 1 don't- know when I've been so pleased. 'J'he old people <-am.- up. to see her, and I spoilt ;no.-t 01 my time convincing them thai it uas no ca.se ior tiaras and sunburst.-. as I never won: them. .Mr.- Elton really looked almost human. She cried .-o that I imaliy had to take a little string oi pearls. Ili'-y were small, hut all matched, and she said I could wear them under my blouse 'and I could aiway- .-ell ih.-m. oud have thought that I'd cured the girl. when, as 1 told them, the thin- had just run it.-* natural course, and her youth and good sense and the outdoor life had done the rest. Of course there was no more use tor me and I went right off on a big operation case—a very interesting one, indeed. I promised to conic to the wedding if I possiblv could; she told me she would be married just as soon as Air Ferrau wished, she felt she'd made him go .through so much in the last four months. And it seemed that he had felt the strain more than they though;, for her mother told me that just as Anne recovered, he seemed to give way and got very nervous, and had gone ott on a yacht with some of his college friends to the south somewhere. 1 was rather surprised not to see him at titer house, and so was Miss Anne, -I thought, but he sent the loveliest flowers everyday and telegrams, and, of course, thev -were working on the trousseau and pretty busy, anyway. ' - I couldn't get to the wedding, after all, for my patient was taken to Lakewood and simply refused to let me off, which was rather mean of her, for 1 could.have run up for the afternoon •as-well-as not. But that's what you have to expect if you go into nursing, and- you get used-to it. -Mrs Elton called me up once at the hotel, to see if I couldn't get away (they were going to send the car for me if I could) and I asked if Mr Ferrau was all right again. '-'Really, Miss Jessop," said she —and I could just see how she must have looked, from her voice—"really, my dear, I am terribly, terribly worried about Philip. He looks frightfully, so Sale and nervous and run down. And e simply won't see a 'doctor and when I earnestlv begged him to consult Dr Stanchon "ho flew out at me—he really flew out!" - '.'What can it be?" said I. "What does Miss Elton think?" "Why, how can she know, my dear.'' says the old lady, "only he assures her that it will be all right once they remarried, and begs her so not to put it off", that she won't, though I dontentirely approve, myself. Really, you d scarcelv know Philip, Miss Jessop. •'-It'did seem .too.bad, but then those ' ' things will happen, and I just thought tcanvself that probably there was more ■" tb~tb*at southern trip than the old lady knew, and let it go at that. The doctor says that all the nurses have dunehovel imaginations—but where do wc get them, I'd like to know, if not from what we see and hear The Lord knows wc don't have to invent things. Miss Elton was dreadfully disappomt*ed that I couldn't be there for the wed- . -ding, and promised me they'd stop a minute at the hotel on their wedding journey and see me. They were going 'on -.a motor trip, nobody knew just where, and Lakewood Would only be a - few miles out of their way. "Wasn t that nice of them? But it was just like both of them. So I was quite excited of course, and when it poured ram all day, and got worse and worse, 1 did feel so sorry for them, and never expected they'd leave town. But, lo and behold, about five o'clock didn't the boy bring up their cards, and for a wonder 'iny patient was decent and said she wouldn't want me till next morningshe, had. her own maid with her and really didn't want me but onco a day.

I fan down to one of the little reception rooms —I must say I like those big when I saw them 1 near'y for though she was looking "perfectly beautiful and well as could be, poor Mr Ferrau certainly did give me a shock. He was all tanned well ■enough, but as thin as a rail, and dreaUful around the eyes. And yet he looked very happy and seemed quite glad to see me. ; "Isn't she looking magnificent.- he asked me, and I said—l just have to say right out what 1 think —"Yes, she is, but I can't say the same for you." -. ."0h,.1 shall be all right—after a bit," he said, turning red and not meeting my eyes. "Just let me get away with Anne for a while, and you'll see. ; They insisted on my having tea with "them, and I couldn't help but think • that she didn't realise how bad lie looked and acted. His hand shook .-.o that his teaspoon jingled, and yet he •was as straight as a string/I was sure. It kept on pouring so dreadfully that they gave up the idea of going on anywhere, and he engaged a suite at the hotel for that night, and I said good-bye -to them, then, for they were to have their dinner served by themselves and I - knew they'd want to get off quietly in the . morning. My patient kept her word and. didn't bother me, and I listened to the music for a while and then went np to my room and wrote'some letters. -About ten I put my boots outside the door and happened to notice the boots .opposite, and saw that they were Mr Ferrau's —they were patent leather '.with rather queer cloth tops. So ! knew that they had the suite opposite ours; there *ere only those two for ' the one little hall. .; I couldn't seem to sleep that night at all. I kept dreaming about that suicide of mine, even when I did sleep, and finally I put on my wrapper and decided to take a few turns up and down the corridor. I opened the door, softly and stepped out —and ran right "into Mr Ferrau. He was stalking along in a bath robe, his arms spread out, the tears rolling down his <cheeks, and he . was chattering to himself like a monkey. His eyes rolled, and I could see he was just on the verge of a regjt lar smash up. ■■':. "Why, Mr Ferrau, what's the matter?"

He stared at me like a crazy man

"You here!" he said. "For God's sake! Go to her—go to Anne —I'm all in," he said. "Oh, Miss Jessop, it didn't work, it didn't work!"

' : *He pointed to his door and I went through the private dining room and ■the sitting-room and a dressing room arid a big marble bath, and there she was, crying like a babv in one of the beds."

►.'•'•Why, Miss Elton, I beg your pardon, Mrs Ferrau — ; what is the matter 1'" 1 said, running up to her and taking hold of her hand. "Are you ill?" . .She : only sobbed and held on to mo and: suddenly something struck me, and I'soidj-"You haven't seen Janet again, •have: you?"

-: "No, no —but I wish I had! I wish I'd'never stopped!" she gulped at me. :,, X)h, Miss Jessop, Philip sees her! He sees'her all the time; that's what makes him look so ill! Ever since she stopped coining'to me, he'd seen her, and he never told." ...i>«p 0 _ heaven's sake!" said'l. "She sits on the bed, but she doesn't Idqfc?a't him —he only sees her profile. twenty miles a day—he did .boxing and fencing and riding—it was rid'use —he thought'when we —when; — he.hoped if "we were married —oh, Miss Jessop, she came just the same!" "For heaven's sake!" I said again, it wasn't very-' helpful, but I simply cphldn't think of anything else. She was so pretty and sweet, and he was so plucky, and who would have supposed it-would have-got on his nerves so! Her nightgown was solid Teal lace, and the front of it sopping wet -where she'd cried, and the top of the sheets too.. •

- "I" gave it to him. and_ he won't give it back —I can't make him!" she went on; gasping and sobbing. "I begged him on -my knees, but he wouldn't." - "And don't you see her ?" I asked. . /-'•No," no, I can't!" she cried. "1 try,, but Iccarl."n r l." "Well; that's something, anyway." \ said.'• "You wait till _ I go and speak to-him again, and put some cold water on your eyes, why don't you?" For it just occurred to lue that maybe I could do something with him,.after all. He was leaning against the win dow at the end of the corridor, and 1 never like to see excited people near windows, after my suicide woman. So I sprinted along till I got to him. But I don't believe there was any need for it—he wasn't that kind. ■ "See here. Mr Ferrau," I said, "do you really believe that Miss Elton—

I beg vour pardon. Mrs Ferrau —really Cave that old Janet ghost to you-'" ••Believe it!' Believe it!-"' he said, stan'ti"- at me out of his red eyes. "No. I don't believe it. Miss Jessop—l know it: 1 teil von 1 s<e the confounded in a brown dress, on the edge of inv !),.<i everv night!'' '•■ Well, then." I said, "do you think you couid give it to anybody else!'' 7 And in.-t at that inoin> , nt. and not bi'i'oiv. " 1 renienibered old .Margaret! ■■\V!iv —why. I never thought of that." he said. "I—l wouldn't put anyone else through such a hell, though—" '■() li. come now.'' J said, "maybe they wouldn't think it was so had as you do, Mr Ferrau." "But who would—oh. itv> too crazy!" he said, half angry, but nil broken up. $o ho didn't much care how it sounded.

"0h, # lots of people." I told him. "Why,'you might easily lind someone with an incurable disease, • you know, that hadn't long to live, and wanted money "

Of course this was all nonsense, but anything to humor people in his condition—it's the only way. And what do you think? He turned around like a shot and stared at me as if I'd been a ghost myself. ~,,,, •J'That might be very' possible.' he said, very slowly, "it's just possible I know. . . ; excuse me, I'll go in and speak to my wife a moment!" He left me there and in a few minutes lie came for me again and I went into their parlor. She had on a beautiful pale rose negligee all covered with lace and her braids were wound around her liead; she'd wiped her eyes. "Would you, perhaps, play a little bridge with us, Miss Jessop," says he, trying to keep calm. "We think we'd better have someone with' us." So there we sat till four in the morning, playing three-handed bridge, and if anybody knows of a funnier weddingnight, I'd like to hear it. I suppose anybody would have thought us all crazy' if they could have seen us, the next night, sitting, all three of us, by the bed of that queer old man that lived in Old Greenwich Village. (My patient let me off, for I told her it was a case of a young bride and groom and she was delighted to oblige the Eltons". She .fold me she should call on them after that! She was a climber if there ever was one, that woman.) He was an old valet of Mr Ferrau's father, and Mr Ferrau was supporting him till he died in a little cottage there. He had angina and was likely to go off any minute, and the Lord knows what Master Philip paid the old monkey— I'll bet it was no thirty cents! He only talked French, but I could see he thought Mr Ferrau was crazy—he looked at me so queerly out of his little wrinkled eves and nodded his head as if to say, "What a pity all this is! But we must humor him." Mrs Ferrau told me afterwards that her husband promised him solemnly to take Janet back if he couldn't stand her—and'he would have, too, and don't forget it! He was a game one. But the old fellow just kept saying, "Bon, m'sieu, bon, hon!" and kept reaching for his envelope. He was onlyafraid they'd change their mind, you see. • .

Then Mr Ferrau lay down on a cot next the old fellow's —he was kept very clean and neat by the woman that boarded him —and I stayed in the room while Master Philip gave that old Janet awav. He insisted that I should witness' it, and to tell you the truth, when I remembered what" black Margaret had said about having a witness, I did feel rather queer for a moment. But of course thev were all crazy—as crazy as loons—so far as that one thing went. You see, it was what Dr Stanchon calls an idee fixe. Thev had to be "humored. Mrs Ferrau and I went out, then, and walked up and down* for an hour through the village with the chauffeur behind us. a little way, and I really thought I'd be dippy myself, before long,"if i had to pretend to be serious about it much longer. It's no wonder to 1110 the doctors in asylums get touched themselves, after what I went through with those two. In just about an hour he came dashing out and pushed us into the car. We didn't need to ask him —he looked ashamed, but oh, so different! "Let's get back to town," was all he said, 'and I never mentioned it to him again, anv of it. Of course, a sensiblefellow like him would feel too ridiculous, knowing he had that silly idea in his head, vet not being able to get over it without'.such childishness—l felt sorry for him. I know that thev didn't go back to Lakewood. for her maid packed up there, and a. week after that the old ladv wrote me from Loiig Island that thev'd gone for a honeymoon tour m the car through Southern France, so I knew that father-in-law's valet hadn t gone back on his bargain. I never knew what .that old monkey made on it but Mrs Ferrau told me he was going to leave it to the Catholic Church in"Normandy, where he was born. I liope it did some good. I went up to Greenwich that summer with a little boy who had tuberculosis of the spine, (the sweetest little fellow, and so clever!) and on one of my afternoons out with him I stopped into the cottage where, the valet lived, just to ask after him. The woman there told me lie had passed away about ten days after I was there before. "In the night?" I asked, more for something to saythau any real reason. "No, in his sleep, in the afternoon, she said. "He didn't sleep much at night, after his young gentleman came, I noticed. He seemed to have bad dreams. He'd been praying away and clicking those rosary beads half the *ni"ht, sometimes. But he went out easv, at- the last. I learned a little French when I was lady's maid to-a partv, once, so I could get along pretty well'with him. But I couldn't make out about those dreams, exactly; they seemed to be about something brown, with its back to him, on the bed. But he was pretty contented by day, when he was awake; he kept telling me of all he was leaving to his church." . When you think about it, it was queer, wasn't it?