"It is very difficult to say; but this I know, that had he been at the time of the accident a man of good physique--which he undoubtedly was--and had there been no adverse circumstances to complicate the case, he would have recovered, and in course of time have been as sound in brain as you or I. But quiet of mind, peace of mind, contentment, are absolutely essential to recovery in such cases, and these were exactly what he lacked. He fretted incessantly for the presence of the woman he cared for so deeply--this made rest impossible, and it became an obsession, a fixed idea, and his brain could not stand the strain. This is hardly a technical explanation, but I want to put it in such a way that you can understand." "Would nothing have done him any good?" asked Philippa. "No treatment, or operation?" "All that has been possible in the way of treatment has been carried out, but operation was out of the question; and, indeed, if it had been deemed advisable Lady Louisa would never have agreed to it. She said, and there was truth in her argument, that all the surgeons in the world could not restore him what he missed and craved for. And now--at last--it seems that a miracle has been performed, and you are here to save him." "What do you want me to do?" she asked in a low voice. "I want you to go to him, to be with him occasionally, to content him, to give him a little happiness--for all the years he has missed--a little happiness--until----" "Until?" "Until he--dies--or----" "Or?" "We can't think of the future; we must just go on from day to day. I know it is much to ask of you, a stranger, but I have no choice but to ask it. Think it over. For a day or two I can keep him quiet, but not for longer. Take a day or two to decide." "I will think it over. I cannot decide now--indeed, indeed I cannot," said Philippa earnestly. "It is not that my heart is not wrung with pity. It is the most pitiful thing I ever heard of; and if I--a stranger, as you truly say--feel it pitiful, what must it be to you who have known him always?" Tears were standing in her eyes. Apart from the tragedy there was something very touching in this man's affection and sorrow for his friend. Neither gruffness of tone nor shortness of manner could disguise the strength of the underlying feeling. "What has his life been?" she asked. "What has he done?" "Waited," answered the doctor shortly. "Just waited. Nothing more nor less. He has occupied himself a little for a few moments at a time. He has read, but does not remember what he reads, and the same book serves him over and over again. He has painted a little, but always the same thing--a woman's face--sketchy--unfinished, but recognisable; and then thrown aside to commence another--but always the same face. But never for one day in all these years has he forgotten the violets." "What violets?"