“You are not really ill at present, my dear madam,” he said, “but you are fast going the way to make yourself so. Not seriously, not dangerously, at least,” he added hastily, misinterpreting the start with which Marion looked up at his words, “fretting and repining don’t kill. At least they take a good while about it, and an uncommonly disagreeable process it is. But what I wish to warn you of is, that continued yielding to mental depression or discomfort, such as I can see you are at present suffering from, ends, in nine cases out of ten, in chronic ill-health. A worse trial, my dear young lady, than you at your age and with your evidently small experience of sickness, can have any notion of. You have had your share of trouble in your short life—perhaps more than your share—but let me beseech you not to add to it, as you are too surely doing. Trouble is hard to bear at the best of times; but none the easier, I assure you, when our physical strength has failed us.” “No one can understand other people’s troubles,” said Marion coldly, sullenly almost, if so ugly a word can be applied to such gentle tones. “You can prescribe for bodily illness, I have no doubt; but you can’t order a patient to get well. Neither can any one make himself happy at command.” “Certainly not,” replied the kind old man; “but, unfortunately, it is in your power, as in mine, and every one else’s, to make ourselves more unhappy.” Marion did not reply, and he went on. “I am not prying into your sorrows, my dear young lady. I can quite believe that, notwithstanding the blessings you possess, your troubles have been very great. The more earnest, therefore, must be the effort to live them down in the best sense. But I have been talking more like a clergyman than a doctor—you must forgive me. Can I see your husband for a moment? I am anxious to tell him that so far there is nothing much amiss. He, I think, is inclined to err on the side of spoiling you, is he not? Must I give him a hint that a little scolding now and then would do you no harm?” “I wish you would,” she replied; “he is far too good and patient, and I am very bad.” She looked up as she spoke with a half smile, but her eyes were full of tears; and something in the tone of her voice haunted the good doctor for many a day to come. His word, however, more than his medicine, acted upon her to some extent as a tonic. Her health improved, her nervousness and irritability decreased. Geoffrey was enchanted with the success of his first exertion of marital authority. “You are looking ever so much better, my darling,” he exclaimed joyfully, “that old fellow was a regular brick. By Jove, I wish I had doubled his fee! You won’t be looking ill after all when I take you home next week. How thankful I am! What would the world be to me without you, my dearest?” And his voice grew husky as he looked at her and tenderly raised her face to his.