David found himself enjoying his holiday a good deal. Blue skies and shining air, clear cold of the snows and radiant warmth of the spring sun, sweet sleep by night and pleasant companionship by day—all these were his portion. His own content surprised him. He had been so long in the dark places that he could scarcely believe that the shadow was gone, and the day clear again. He had been prepared to struggle manfully against the feeling for Mary which had haunted and tormented him for so long. To his surprise, he found that this feeling fell into line with the other symptoms of his illness. He shrank from thinking of it, as he shrank from thinking of his craving for drink, his sleepless nights, and his dread of madness. It was all a part of the same bad dream—a shadow among shadows, in a world of gloom from which he had escaped. Elizabeth was a very good companion. It was too early to climb, but they took long walks, shared picnic meals, and talked or were silent just as the spirit moved them. It was the old boy and girl companionship come back, and it was a very restful thing. One day, when they had been married about a fortnight, David said suddenly: “How did you do it, Elizabeth?” They were sitting on a grassy slope, looking over a wide valley where blue mists lay. A little wind was blowing, and the upper air was clear. The grass on which they sat was short. It was full of innumerable small white and purple anemones. Elizabeth was sitting on the grass, watching the flowers, and touching first one and then another with the tips of her fingers. “All these little white ones have a violet stain at the back of each petal,” was the last thing that she had said, but when David spoke she looked up, a little startled. He was lying full length on a narrow ledge just above her, with his cap over his eyes to shield them from the sun, which was very bright. “How did you do it, Elizabeth?” said David Blake. Elizabeth hesitated. She could not see his face. “What do you mean?” “How did you do it? Was it hypnotism?” “Oh, no—” There was real horror in her voice. “It must have been.” She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “Do you remember how interested we used to be in hypnotism, David?” “Yes, that’s partly what made me think of it.” “We read everything we could lay hands on—all the books on psychic phenomena—Charcot’s experiments—everything. And do you remember the conclusion we came to?” “What was it?” “I don’t think you’ve forgotten. I can remember you stamping up and down my little room and saying, ‘It’s a _damnable_ thing, Elizabeth, a perfectly damnable thing. There’s _no_ end, absolutely none to the extent to which it undermines everything—I believe it is a much more real devil than any that the theologies produce.’ That’s what you said nine years ago, David, and I agreed with you. We used quite a lot of strong language between us, and I don’t feel called upon to retract any of it. Hypnotism _is_ a damnable thing.”