"I am not ill," Mona said apologetically. "But I can't sleep much, and things get on my nerves; so I thought I would allow myself the luxury of consulting you." "You do look seedy," was the frank reply, and the brown eyes kept firm hold of the white, sensitive face. "Over-working?" "No." "When is your next examination?" "Not for eighteen months." "So it isn't that?" "No, it isn't that." Dr Bateson put her fingers on the girl's pulse. Her manner could not be called strictly sympathetic--certainly not effusive--but there was something very irresistible in her profound and unassumed interest in her patients. "Is something particular worrying you?" she said shortly. Mona smiled drearily. "There you have me," she said. "Something is worrying me. It lies entirely out of my power, so I cannot control it; and it is still uncertain, so I cannot make up my mind to it." "And you can't shake it off, and wait?" "I am afraid it is because I have failed in that, that I have come to you. I suppose I am demanding the impossible--asking you to 'minister to a mind diseased.'" "I don't mind ministering to a mind diseased at all--if it is not too diseased to carry out my instructions. In this age of worry and strain one laughs at the stories of the old doctors, who declined to undertake a case if the patient had anything on his mind. They would not have a very flourishing practice now-a-days. Thousands of worries and not a few suicides might be prevented by the timely use of a simple tonic. Prosaic, isn't it?" "Prove it true in my case, and I shall be grateful to you all my life. I don't play the part of invalid _con amore_." "That I believe. What are you going to do with your Easter holiday?" "I am not going to leave town,--at least not for more than a few days." "Why not?" Mona's appearance did not suggest the lack of means, to which Dr Alice Bateson was pretty well accustomed in her practice. "I want to get on with my hospital work; and besides, it is work that keeps one sane." "That is quite true up to a certain point. I suppose you have friends that you can go to?" "Yes. My aunt wants me to go to Bournemouth with her," Mona admitted unwillingly. "And is she a congenial companion?" "Thoroughly; but I should mope myself to death." "Not if you follow my advice. Live on the cliffs the whole day long, read what will rest you, and take a tonic that will make you eat in spite of yourself." She asked a few more questions, and then consulted Mona very frankly about the ingredients of her prescription. Dr Bateson did not at all believe in making a mystery of her art, nor in drawing a hard-and-fast line between students and doctors. "Thank you very much indeed," Mona said, rising and tendering her fee. "Nonsense! we are none of us cannibals, as your great Scotch Æsculapius says. I don't take fees from students and nurses." "But I am not studying in order to support myself."