“I had my worst-of-all dream!” she said, bitterly. “It has come to me these last years: at first—years back—I waked up crying and miserable, but could not remember. Then I remembered something about _pistolets_. I do not know your English word.” “Pistols?” said Hugh. He never used the word, or thought of the weapon, without a shudder. “That is it,” she assented. “Were you ever frightened by firearms, do you think?” asked Dr. Paull, resolutely suppressing the commencement of the hopelessly wretched mood which inevitably succeeded any suggestion of that past terrible experience. “Sometimes a fright in infancy will reproduce unpleasant impressions.... Do you understand me?” “I never saw pistolets before that dream,” she said, slowly and solemnly. “I could swear it to you before the _bon Dieu_, monsieur!” “I quite believe you,” said Hugh, hurriedly. “There are strange incidents in the lives of young children, and they have curious ideas—science is yet in the dark about these things. But——” He paused and looked almost tenderly at the great, childish, anxious eyes raised to his. “I want to help you,” he said; “but, frankly, it is difficult.” Then he questioned her as to the drugs physicians had ordered her, and she brought him a pile of prescriptions which proved to him how futile the greatest scientists’ efforts had been to alleviate the torture suffered by this envied, but in reality most pitiable young creature. She looked so lovely, such a rare blossom of sweet womanhood; and, glancing at her amid her luxurious surroundings, anyone would have derided the idea of pitying her. But, as Hugh looked at her a strong belief arose in his mind that she was not, in some way, like other people; and that—how or why, he dared not imagine—some blight was upon that fair young head. Possibly some ante-natal occurrence, however remote, might have produced her morbid condition. As he sat looking at her, thinking deeply, casting about how he could help her, she was watching him hopefully. At their first meeting she had felt a calmed sensation, an access of strength, while talking to him, and since—even when merely remembering or speaking of him. “Well, monsieur?” she asked at last, with a smile. He sighed, almost impatiently. “You expect me to give you medicine?” he asked. “If you do, monsieur le docteur, I think I could not take it,” she said. “I have had so much _médécine_, and never, never did it take away one dream; no, not one!” “Then what am I to do for you?” asked Hugh, in his perplexed mood unaware how strange a question this was from an eminent physician to a patient. She looked at him earnestly, and leaning forward she said, slowly: “See me—every—day!” Hugh started. Then he laughed, then checked himself. Was she mad, or only eccentric? “Why?” he asked. “Why see you every day, especially as you tell me that if I prescribe for you, you will not take my medicine?”