"Now then," said the doctor, "I speak to you fairly as one who has had some experience of such matters, but who honestly owns that he finds life too short to master a thousandth part of what he ought to know. I say, then, look here," he continued, thrusting his hands through his crisp hair, "your state puzzles me: pulse, countenance, eye, all say to me that you are quite well; but you every now and then contradict it. What I tell you, then, is this, and of it I feel sure. It lies in your power to follow either of two roads you please: You can be a healthy, vigorous man, clear of intellect, save a cloud or two now and then which you must treat as rainy days, or you can force yourself by your despondency into so low a mental state that you may become one of my patients. Now, then, which is it to be, my sturdy young married man? Answer for Gertrude's sake." "There is only one answer," cried Huish, springing up. "For Gertrude's sake." "That's right," cried the doctor, shaking his hand warmly. "Spoken like a man." "But will you prescribe? Shall I take anything?" "Bah! Stuff! Doctor's stuff," he added, laughing. "My dear boy, that dearly beloved, credulous creature, the human being, is never happy unless he is taking bottles and bottles of physic, and boxes and boxes of pills. Look at the fortunes made by it. Human nature will not believe that it can be cured without medicine, when in most cases it can. Why, my dear boy, your daily food is your medicine, your mental and bodily food. There, be off, go and enjoy the society of your dear little wife. Go and row her up the river, or drive her in the park; go in the country and pick buttercups, and run after butterflies, and eat bread-and-butter; sleep well, live well and innocently, and believe in the truest words ever written: `Care killed the cat!' Don't let it kill you." "No, I can't afford to let it kill me," said Huish, smiling. "Never mind your sore finger, my boy; everybody has got a sore place, only they are divided into two classes: those who show them, and those who do not so much as wear a stall. Good-bye; God bless you, my boy! I wish I had your youth and strength, and pretty wife, and then--" "Then what, doctor?" said Huish, smiling, and looking quite himself. "Why, like you, you dog, I should not be satisfied. Be off; I shall come and see you soon. Where's your address? Love to my little Gertrude; and John, tell her if--eh?--by-and-by--" "Nonsense!" cried Huish, flushing with pleasure. "I shall tell her no such thing." "You will," said the doctor, grinning. "Oh, that's the address, eh? Westbourne Road. Good-bye." "I don't understand him," said the doctor thoughtfully, as soon as he was alone. "He is himself to-day; last time he was almost brutal. Heaven help him, poor fellow! if--No, no; I will not think that. But he is terribly unhinged at times." Volume 2, Chapter XIII. CLOTILDE IS TRIUMPHANT.