"No, no, no," Mrs. Wells interrupted impatiently. "Don't tell me those old things. I am a trained nurse. I _know_ my case is entirely different." "How is it different? We all have dreams. I have dreams myself. One night I dreamed that I was dissecting the janitor downstairs; sometimes I wish I had." Penelope brushed aside this effort at humor. "You haven't dreamed that twenty times with every detail the same, have you? That's how I dream. I see these faces, real faces, again and again. I hear the same cries, the same words, vile words. Oh, I can't tell you how horrible it is!" "But we are not responsible for our dreams," the doctor insisted. She shook her head wearily. "That's just the point, it seems to me that I am responsible. I feel as if I _enjoy_ these horrible dreams--while I am dreaming them. When I am awake, the very thought of them makes me shudder, but while I am dreaming I seem to be an entirely different person--a low, vulgar creature proud of the brutal strength and coarseness of her man. I seem to be a part of this human beast! When I wake up I feel as if my soul had been stained, dragged in the mire, almost lost. It seems as if I could never again feel any self-respect. Oh, doctor," Penelope's voice broke and the tears filled her eyes, "you must help me! I cannot bear this torture any longer! What can I do to escape from such a curse?" Seldom, in his years of practice, had the specialist been so moved by a patient's confession as was Dr. Owen during Penelope's revelation of her suffering. As a kindly human soul he longed to help this agonized mortal; as a scientific expert he was eager to solve the mystery of this nervous disorder. He leaned toward her with a look of compassion. "Be assured, my dear Mrs. Wells, I shall do everything in my power to help you. And in order to accomplish what we want, I must understand a great many things about your past life." He drew a letter from his pocket. "Let me look over what Captain Herrick wrote me about you. Hm! He refers to your married life?" "Yes." The doctor studied the letter in silence. "I see. Your husband died about four years ago?" "Four years and a half." "I judge that your married life was not very happy?" "That is true, it was very unhappy." "Is there anything in your memory of your husband, any details regarding your married life, that may have a bearing on your present state of mind?" "I--I think perhaps there is," she answered hesitatingly. "Is it something of an intimate nature that--er--you find it difficult to tell me about?" "I will tell you about it, doctor, but, if you don't mind," she made a pathetic little gesture, "I would rather tell you at some other time. It has no bearing upon my immediate trouble, that is, I don't think it has." "Good. We'll take that up later on. Now I want to ask another question. I understood you to say that when you did that brave act on the battle field you really wanted to--to have the whole thing over with?"