Her great shining eyes were dry—but their agonising wistfulness was more piteous than tears. Hers was evidently some incurable grief. Hugh felt disinclined to probe further. Still, he spoke gently and comfortingly to the poor child—the friendless, motherless girl. He said, truly, that he felt no doubt but that her rash act was the consequence of overstrain. Were she to die now, or later on, she would not, in his opinion, be guilty of the frightful crime of self-murder. Then he asked her, seeing that her troubled expression remained, whether she would like to see a clergyman. “Then you do believe I shall die?” she said, a sudden light crossing her face like a sunbeam. “Oh, thank God!” Hugh nearly started up from his chair. Certainly the mental state of this poor young creature was a new experience. What should he say—or do? She saved any hesitation by seizing his hand in her burning fingers. “Promise me,” she said, “that you will do something for me after I am dead.” Once more Hugh hesitated. He would not promise anything, or bind himself to anything, until he knew the whole truth about that which he might undertake (he would even not say _would_ undertake). Then the truth came out. It was the old story—love, deception, and the inevitable parting of sinner and sinned against. Olive (that was his patient’s Christian name) had met her hero at a musical party. He had been interested in her singing, and had become a frequent visitor at her brother’s house. He persuaded her brother to allow her to live in London for a time, to study, and himself recommended persons who would, he said, care for her as their own daughter during that time. She went to London, and saw her lover as often as he could contrive to come to town. She considered herself engaged to him; he even went so far as to fix their marriage. But all was to be kept secret. Her preparation for the stage was also kept secret, her future husband promising her marriage immediately after her first appearance. This she made at a theatre in Ireland. Her lover was present—but the next morning she received a letter from him telling her that all must be over between them. He found that their marriage would ruin his career, and he begged her, if she had any affection for him at all, never to see or write to him again, and, forgetting him, to accept the profession he had planned for her instead of a husband. Brokenhearted, she wrote a long letter to her sister, which was answered by her brother in the harshest terms, telling her she had made her own bed and must lie on it. After that she roused herself, worked hard, and achieved many triumphs. Then came bitterness, desolation of soul, and the sudden fit of despairing frenzy during which she had attempted suicide on the stage.