‘Well, Namby, what’s the matter with my daughter?’ he asked, without looking up from a volume of Plutarch’s ‘Moralia.’ ‘You have been anxious about her.’ ‘I have not been anxious. Her governess took it into her head to be anxious, and wished that you should be sent for. There’s nothing amiss, I conclude.’ ‘There is very much amiss. Your daughter’s lonely life is killing her. She must have livelier company than Miss Scales--and change of air and scene directly the weather is milder.’ ‘But there is nothing actually wrong, nothing organic?’ ‘Nothing that I can discover at present. But there is sleeplessness--one of the worst foes to life--there is loss of appetite--there is want of vigour. She must be roused, interested, amused.’ ‘Do you mean that she should be taken to London and carried about to balls and theatres?’ inquired Mr. Harefield. ‘She is not in a condition for balls and theatres, even if you were inclined to indulge her so far. No, she wants to be made happier, that is all.’ ‘All!’ exclaimed Mr. Harefield. ‘You are moderate in your demands. Do you suppose that I have a recipe for making young women happy? It would be almost as miraculous as the wand with which the wicked fairy used to transform a contumacious prince into a blue bird or a white poodle. I have let my daughter have her own way in all the minor details of life, and I have put no limit upon her pocket-money. I can imagine no other way of making her happy.’ ‘I think you will be obliged to find some other way,’ answered Mr. Namby, tremulous at his own audacity; but the lion was unusually mild this morning, and the doctor felt heroic, ‘unless you want to lose her.’ ‘Lose her!’ cried Mr. Harefield. ‘Oh, she will last my time, depend upon it. My lease has not long to run, and then she will be mistress of her fate, and be happy in her own way.’ ‘My dear sir, with your noble constitution----’ ‘Length of days does not depend entirely on constitution. A man must have the inclination to live. But tell me what I am to do for my daughter.’ ‘Let her have her young friend Miss Scratchell to come and stay with her, and when the spring comes send them both to the sea-side.’ ‘I have no objection. I will write to Scratchell immediately. His daughter has been employed at the Park lately, but, as that can only be a question of remuneration, I can arrange it with Scratchell.’ ‘I do not think you can do any more at present. I shall send Miss Harefield a tonic. Good morning.’ The village surgeon retired, delighted at getting off so easily. Mr. Harefield wrote at once to his agent:-- ‘Dear Scratchell, ‘My daughter is ill, and wants pleasant company. Please let your girl come and stay with her. If there is any loss involved in your daughter being away from home, I shall be happy to send you a cheque for whatever amount you may consider sufficient.’ ‘Yours truly, C. H.’