"I don't," said Marcia. "A life without discipline is worth nothing, but we have been very differently trained. Anyhow, I believe that in three months' time my stepmother will be so much better that she will be able to go downstairs and take her part in the household. Beyond doubt her illness is largely fanciful, and when that is the case, and when the girls have come to recognise the fact that they must devote a portion of their time to her, things will go well, and I shall be able to return to Frankfort for another year." "Oh, delightful," said Angela. "Think of the opera, and the music. Perhaps we might go to Dresden, or to Leipsic. I do want to see those places and the pictures, and to hear the music, and to do all that is to be done." Marcia smiled; she allowed Angela to talk on. By-and-by it was time for them to return to the railway station. The train was a little late, and Marcia and Angela paced up and down the little platform, and talked as girls will talk, until at last the local train drew up, and Marcia took her seat. She found herself alone with one man. At first she did not recognise him, then she gave a start. It was Dr Anstruther, the medical man who attended her mother. He came at once towards her, holding out his hand. "How do you do, Miss Marcia? I am very glad to see you, and to have the pleasure of travelling with you as far as Newcastle." Marcia replied that the pleasure was also hers, and then she began to ask him one or two questions with regard to her stepmother. "I cannot tell you how thankful I am," he said, "that you have returned; her case perplexes me a good deal." "Her case perplexes you, doctor?" "Well, yes. Things are going from bad to worse." "But surely," said Marcia, with a little gasp and a tightening at her heart, "you are not seriously alarmed about my stepmother." "Not seriously alarmed at present, but I soon should be if the present state of things went on." "I always thought," said Marcia, "and I gathered that opinion partly from your words, that her case was not at all serious, and that you believed most of her symptoms to be purely imaginary." "On purpose I always encouraged her to think so, and a good many of her symptoms are imaginary, or rather they are only the consequence of weakened nerves; her nerves are very weak." "But that kind of thing is never dangerous, is it?" said Marcia, who with her twenty years on her shoulders, and her buoyant strength and youth, had a rooted contempt for what people called nerves. "Nervous diseases in themselves are scarcely dangerous, but in your mother's case there is a serious heart affection, which requires and must always require, an immensity of care. She has not the slightest idea of that herself, and I should be very sorry to enlighten her on the point. I could not tell your sisters, who would not comprehend me if I did, but I have often been on the point of mentioning the fact to your father, or to your brother."