Mary was then sixteen, I but twenty, and although a medical student, I could not have known a deal. The mother and daughter were country cottagers, and being poor, the family doctor did not, probably could not, devote overmuch time to the case. One thing, however, I objected to: he kept pouring cod-liver oil into his patient, completely deranging the stomach and rendering the digestion of the food a complete impossibility. From the very first week that Mary stopped the oil her appetite improved, and—the old doctor stopped away. The case was mine therefore, and I took no small pains with it. I thought that if there was any chance of getting the girl over her trouble at all, it was by making her strong. We live by food and not by physic, I argued—food and fresh air. Mary’s bedroom was a small one and downstairs; but there happened to be a large attic or garret above, and the father being a handy man—and Mary the only girl-child—he did as I told him, and made a large window on the south side of the attic. Then it was completely cleared out and cleaned out, the walls whitewashed and the floor well scrubbed. When mats were put down here and there, and a nice bed at one side on which the morning light could fall, the room was so far ready for occupation. The mother wanted bed curtains and window curtains. I would hear of neither. I shook my young head with an air of awe-inspiring profundity as I tabooed the curtains. But I permitted any amount of artistic though rural decoration. Mary had much taste, and the hours she spent in making that attic into a boudoir were the best investment of time possible, because they occupied her mind, and I would not let her believe she was ill, or had the seeds of consumption in her system. All she wanted, I said, was strength. And I really was not far wrong. I gave her Hope instead of cod-liver oil. But I insisted upon her being out of doors nearly all day long, wearing clothing to accord with the state of the weather, but never fearing the cold. She was to sleep, not in a draught, but with her window open. Her mother said, “My conscience, doctor laddie!” at first, but I insisted. All the medicine Mary had for the next twelve months could have been placed inside a walnut shell. Her mental medicine was not neglected, and this consisted of books to read—I gave her these—and light work to do, chiefly out of doors, also pleasant quiet companionship. Fresh air was the most important weapon I used to fight the trouble. Next came food. Cream, butter, good milk, nice bacon, and suet dumplings were ten thousand times better than expensive and fulsome cod-liver oil. She had meat too, as much as she could take, with vegetables—potatoes and greens—and bread.