"And why do you wish that?" she queried. "Because, if I could, I would get off the train and wade through the snow away out to that clump of evergreens you see there two-thirds of the way up the slope--which would be out of hearing from here--and I would get behind the evergreens, out of sight, and sing something dolorous." "Why would you do that?" "I hardly know myself. I suppose it would be something in the mood and the way of the old troubadours, who, when things went wrong, murmured 'Alack' and sought the silent places and engaged in dismal vocalism." "But don't you think it was rather foolish of them?" ventured the Far Away Lady. "I don't know about that. It must have been a sort of relief. Groaning is a great relief when you are hurt. I noticed that particularly among my workmen in Siberia, whenever one of them had been injured in an accident. Very fine groaners they were, too." "But what nonsense you are talking"--there was a note of more than anxiety in her voice--"has something happened? Tell me, John. Has anything occurred to-day to disturb you?" "Nothing, madam, nothing at all. Do you know what is meant by 'cumulative repression?' Well I'm suffering from 'cumulative repression.' That's all. There are different kinds of the disease and mine is of the sort for which there is nothing one can take." "I don't understand you, John." "No? Well, I don't seem to make myself very clear, it is true. I didn't explain 'cumulative' as thoroughly as I might have done. It's this way: Suppose you were compelled to take some drug the effect of which is known as 'cumulative.' The first dose would have little effect, and so on, up to a certain time. Then something would happen, and that something would be a result just the same as if you had taken all the doses at once--mighty serious, possibly. In my case I don't, as yet, know just how serious the effect is. I think--at least I hope--that I will recover. I seem to feel it wearing off a shade, but I'm not quite sure. The consequences of 'cumulative repression' are sometimes most serious. Insanity has been known to come. But, as for me, 'I am not mad, I am not mad,' I'm only a little--I'm only wandering in my mind." Then, all at once, his mood changed to something absolutely earnest and his look was pitifully appealing as he leaned toward her: "Oh, Lady Leech, can you do nothing for me?" She did not answer him. She understood. She knew, as well as if he had told her in simpler words, that he had almost failed in his high resolve and that he had come to her, feverish, in a half madness, to be upheld and strengthened, or otherwise to be dealt with, as she would. She realized it all, and thought silently, struggling with herself as he might never know. But the good, both for his sake and hers, was strong within her and finally came her soft reply: "You know, John, that I would help you if I could, but you know that I cannot, that I must not, even a little."