“Yes, I married Dr. Tarbot. I am sorry he is out. He would doubtless have answered whatever question you intend to ask better than I could.” “I wished to see him with regard to a curious rumor which is afloat, but I have something else to say to you.” “What is that? I am all attention.” “May I trust you?” “Absolutely.” “It is about my husband. He is not well. He is troubled by a nervous ailment.” Mrs. Tarbot looked watchful and eager. She no longer lay back in her chair; she sat upright, her thin hands were folded on her lap, the jewels with which her fingers were loaded shone in the firelight. Her eyes, filled with bold intentness, were fixed on Barbara’s white face. All the remarkable and gracious beauty of the young face was torture to the jealous heart of the other woman. She saw that a new development in her strange history was imminent, and roused herself, bracing every nerve to meet it. “Yes,” she said, “a nervous ailment. This is the age for such maladies. We live too fast, we put too much into our lives, nerves get overwrought, they give way. Our grandmothers vegetated, they did not know the meaning of nerves. A young man, rich, in the prime of youth, who has just married the girl he loves, ought not to suffer from nervous troubles.” “My husband cannot get over the death of the child.” “Ah!” “He is haunted by strange fears in connection with that death.” “What do you mean?” “What I say, and I have come now to ask you to tell me frankly and fully, knowing that God is present and is listening to us, what the child really died of.” “Acute disease of the heart.” “I wish you would tell Dick so. His mind is in a strange state of confusion. If you were to see him and repeat the words you have just told me it might give him untold relief.” “My word alone would not do that. When Dr. Tarbot signed the death certificate he spoke of the cause of death as aortic disease—that means disease of the aortic valve of the heart, a species of heart disease which invariably ends suddenly. Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard Spears were of the same opinion. My word goes for nothing. Let your husband see the great specialists who examined the boy’s heart within twenty-four hours of his death.” “I am greatly obliged to you,” said Barbara. She rose to go as she spoke. “I will tell Dick what you say. Yes, he must see the doctors. Their verdict will set his mind at rest.” Barbara held out her hand. “I am glad you came to see me,” said Mrs. Tarbot, “and if in the future I can help you, pray command me.” “But how can you help me?” “I mean this. From what you say, your husband is suffering from nerve depression. Nothing else can account for the curious state you have half described. The doctors whom he consults may set his mind at rest, but if after seeing them his troubles return, his complaint ought to be treated as something physical, an ailment of the body which requires cure.”