“It would be, perhaps, if you were confined to outside remedies. But what an opportunity your profession gives you of attacking the enemy from the inside as well! And you have this advantage over us, that no man can say it belongs to your profession to say such things, and THEREFORE disregard them.” “Ah, Mr Walton, I have too great a respect for your profession to dare to interfere with it. The doctor in ‘Macbeth,’ you know, could ‘not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart.’” “What a memory you have! But you don’t think I can do that any more than you?” “You know the best medicine to give, anyhow. I wish I always did. But you see we have no _theriaca_ now.” “Well, we have. For the Lord says, ‘Come unto me, and I will give you rest.’” “There! I told you! That will meet all diseases.” “Strangely now, there comes into my mind a line of Chaucer, with which I will make a small return for your quotation from Shakespeare; you have mentioned theriaca; and I, without thinking of this line, quoted our Lord’s words. Chaucer brings the two together, for the word triacle is merely a corruption of theriaca, the unfailing cure for every thing. ‘Crist, which that is to every harm triacle.’” “That is delightful: I thank you. And that is in Chaucer?” “Yes. In the Man-of-Law’s Tale.” “Shall I tell you how I was able to quote so correctly from Shakespeare? I have just come from referring to the passage. And I mention that because I want to tell you what made me think of the passage. I had been to see poor Catherine Weir. I think she is not long for this world. She has a bad cough, and I fear her lungs are going.” “I am concerned to hear that. I considered her very delicate, and am not surprised. But I wish, I do wish, I had got a little hold of her before, that I might be of some use to her now. Is she in immediate danger, do you think?” “No. I do not think so. But I have no expectation of her recovery. Very likely she will just live through the winter and die in the spring. Those patients so often go as the flowers come! All her coughing, poor woman, will not cleanse her stuffed bosom. The perilous stuff weighs on her heart, as Shakespeare says, as well as on her lungs.” “Ah, dear! What is it, doctor, that weighs upon her heart? Is it shame, or what is it? for she is so uncommunicative that I hardly know anything at all about her yet.” “I cannot tell. She has the faculty of silence.” “But do not think I complain that she has not made me her confessor. I only mean that if she would talk at all, one would have a chance of knowing something of the state of her mind, and so might give her some help.”