'But I suspect,' said the doctor, with a curiously-observant air upon him, 'that that is just the thing that would be most effectual in killing her. Come, now, recover yourself: I have something to say to you. I shall count a hundred, and then I shall go on. . . . When you first consulted me, and I asked you what your mother was suffering from, I seriously meant it. I want to cure your mother, or at all events to show you the way to do it, for I have an idea that you, not I, must be the doctor. I will make you a present of all my little fees in this case if I am successful. That ought to assure you of my earnestness.' He smiled gently as he said this. 'Knowing full well, as you say, that you would treble them if we happily succeed. I will give you another proof of my earnestness. I loved my mother. Have I won your confidence? Well then, I can grapple with physical disease with fair success; give me the opportunity of grappling with the mental disease which is killing your mother. I have an hour, perhaps two, to spare. Tell me, unreservedly, the story of your mother's life, in which of course yours will be included. Conceal nothing, and be especially explicit in every incident where the feelings are brought into play. If you understand me, and are willing to trust me, commence at once.' I told him all, freely and without reservation, from my first remembrance in connection with my mother, to the time--but a few days past--when I heard her in her delirium speaking to my father about me and my future. Many times during the recital I was compelled to pause from emotion, and when I finished his eyes also were suffused with tears.