"Harding?" he said graciously. "Oh, yes! You are the woman who bangs the doors." He let me read for two hours on end, and then said, "Stupid book. I can't think how they ever get published!" but when I left, he asked, "When will you come again?" which was as far in the way of thanks as it is possible for him to get. For the next three weeks I went constantly to the Home, and never once did that man say a gracious word. If I arrived late, he growled and said, "Thought you were never coming! Hardly worth beginning at all." If I was early, his greeting was, "I was just having a nap! Haven't closed my eyes since two this morning, and now you have roused me up!" If I read a book, he preferred a newspaper. If I read a newspaper, it crackled, and worried his head. If I made a remark, he disagreed; if I was silent, "Was there _no_ news?--_nothing_ going on to tell a poor wretch tied to his bed?" If I said he looked better, he would have me to know that nurses and doctors alike were deluding him with lies. He knew for a fact that he was dying fast. If I said he looked tired, he felt better than he had done all the week. It was impossible to please him--impossible to win a smile or a gracious word. Never have I met a human being so twisted and warped in mind. To go into his room is like entering a black tunnel--one leaves it with the feeling of breaking bonds. The matron of the Home is a brisk, capable woman, with a face full of kindly strength; we generally met and exchanged a few words on stairs or landing, and it was easy to see that her patience was wearing thin. There came a day when she met me with a red face, beckoned me into her private room, and poured forth a stream of angry confidences. "I really must speak to some one about Mr Travers. His poor wife has enough to bear. I can't trouble her. The man is insufferable; he upsets the whole house. His nurse has just been to me in tears. Nothing will please him. He rings his bell all day, and half the night, and for nothing--literally nothing! Just an excuse to give trouble. We have honestly done our best--more than our best. With such a patient it is easier to give in than to protest, but I'm beginning to think we've been wrong. He is not getting on as quickly as he should. I believe his temper is keeping him back." "I'm sure of it! You are an expert at healing, and I'm a beginner, but I'm a great believer in the power of the mind. He is poisoning himself." "He is poisoning every one else! I can't submit to have my whole house upset. If he were fit to be moved, he should be out of it to-day. It's all I can do to be civil, and not blaze out, and tell him what I think!" "I shouldn't try!" "What?" She looked at me sharply. "Ah! You agree? You feel the same? You think I dare?"