Remember, however bad it is for you to be ill, it is fifty times worse for those who have to see you suffer, and that you must even at your worst think about that and remember other people. Do not make their anxiety greater by refusing food or medicine, or by disobeying your doctor or nurse; for the time give yourself entirely into their hands, and do not refuse or kick against their remedies, their rules and regulations. Be absolutely calm, absolutely quiet, and, above all, if you want to get well do not lose your hold on life if you can, and don’t fret or become terrified. Fear and fretting are a doctor’s worst foes--almost worse than disobedience. If you can recollect that whatever is is best, and that you will recover if it is better that you should, you will have a thousand chances that the irritable invalid can never have, and, at all events, if you do die you will die courageously and resignedly, and not screaming and kicking like a naughty child does whose nurse fetches it away to bed before it thinks it is ready to retire to rest. Its nurse knows best; and so does God, and if you are fetched ten chances to one your work is done, and you can retire from the scene gracefully even if you cannot feel you are quite glad to go. I am certain that the mind has a great deal to do with one’s body from a small experience of my own when once I was saved from being very ill by a mere exercise of will, rendered necessary by a sudden shock received when one of my children was only two days old. My dear old nurse was in my room at 12, and at 7 she was dead in the room next to mine, and I knew all about it. There were the two eldest children--who were five and three--running about calling for ‘Nan,’ from whom they had never been separated five minutes since the hour they were born. I had a new housemaid. I had seen in the looking-glass the monthly nurse drinking brandy out of the bottle, and told Nan of this, and I was absolutely alone as far as friends were concerned. Could any situation be worse? And yet before I slept I had arranged for the children to go to London, for the funeral to take place soon, and for the friends to be told. And then began the struggle. My doctor was confined to the house with bronchitis; circumstances made his partner impossible; the nearest medical man on whom one could depend was fourteen miles away, and I knew I must not be ill; and all that wretched night I kept saying this to myself, repeating who I was, where I was, and what had happened, until I felt I was master of the situation. Surely had I given in then I should have had a fever; as it was, I occasionally felt my head was loose and swimming round the room by itself, and it was only by repeating to myself that this was impossible that I kept off the delusion, and after a day or two I was nearly well, or at all events was not ill in the accepted sense of the word, though my dear old doctor nearly wept when I