“Really, Mr. Bristow, this conversation is to me most interesting,” said the widow. “Your views are thoroughly original, but, at the same time, I feel that they are perfectly correct.” “The sphere of your intellectual activity is far too narrow and confined,” resumed Tom; “your brain has not sufficient pabulum to keep it in a state of healthy activity. You want to mix more with the world—to mix more with clever people like yourself. It was never intended by nature that you should lose yourself among the narrow coteries of provincial life: the metropolis claims you: the world at large claims you. A conversationalist so brilliant, so incisive, with such an exhaustless fund of new ideas, can only hope to find her equals among the best circles of London or Parisian society.” “How thoroughly you appreciate me, Mr. Bristow!” said the widow, all in a flutter of gratified vanity, as she edged her chair still closer to Tom. “It is as you say. I feel that I am lost here—that I am altogether out of my element. I stay here more as a matter of duty—of principle—than of anything else. Not that it is any gratification to me, as you may well imagine, to be buried alive in this dull hole. But my brother is getting old and infirm—breaking fast, I’m afraid, poor man,” here the Squire gave a louder snore than common; “while Jane is little more than a foolish girl. They both need the guidance of a kind but firm hand. The interests of both demand a clear brain to look after them.” “My dear madam, I agree with you in toto. Your Spartan views with regard to the duties of everyday life are mine exactly. But we must not forget that we have still another duty—that of carefully preserving our health, especially when our lives are invaluable to the epoch in which we live. You, my dear madam, are killing yourself by inches.” “Oh, Mr. Bristow, not quite so bad as that, I hope!” “What I say, I say advisedly. I think that, without difficulty, I can specify a few symptoms of the cerebral disorder to which you are a victim. You will bear me out if what I say is correct.” “Yes, yes; please go on.” “You are a sufferer from sleeplessness to a certain extent. The body would fain rest, being tired and worn out, but the active brain will not allow it to do so. Am I right, Mrs. McDermott?” “I cannot dispute the accuracy of what you say.” “Your nature being large and eminently sympathetic, but not finding sufficient vent for itself in the narrow circle to which it is condemned, busies itself, for lack of other aliment, with the concerns and daily doings of those around it, giving them the benefit of its vast experience and intuitive good sense; but being met sometimes with coldness instead of sympathy, it collapses, falls back upon itself, and becomes morbid for want of proper intellectual companionship. May I hope that you follow me?” “Yes—yes, perfectly,” said the widow, but looking somewhat mystified, notwithstanding.