"I have very little to tell," I replied. "I have examined your daughter carefully. She is suffering from no disease to which a name can be attached. She is below par, certainly; there is weakness and general depression, but a tonic ought to set all these matters right." "I have tried tonics without avail," said Mrs. Heathcote. "Has not your family physician seen Miss Heathcote?" "Not lately." The widow's manner became decidedly hesitating. "The fact is, we have not consulted him since--since Mr. Heathcote's death," she said. "When did that take place?" "Six months ago." Here she spoke with infinite sadness, and her face, already very pale, turned perceptibly paler. "Is there nothing you can tell me to give me a clue to your daughter's condition? Is there anything, for instance, preying on her mind?" "Nothing whatever." "The expression of her face is very sad for so young a girl." [Illustration: "I FELT HER PULSE."] "You must remember," said Mrs. Heathcote, "that she has lately lost her father." "Even so," I replied; "that would scarcely account for her nervous condition. A healthy-minded child will not be overcome with grief to the serious detriment of health after an interval of six months. At least," I added, "that is my experience in ordinary cases." "I am grieved to hear it," said Mrs. Heathcote. She looked very much troubled. Her agitation was apparent in her trembling hands and quivering lips. "Your daughter is in a nervous condition," I said, rising. "She has no disease at present, but a little extra strain might develop real disease, or might affect her nerves, already overstrung, to a dangerous degree. I should recommend complete change of air and scene immediately." Mrs. Heathcote sighed heavily. "You don't look very well yourself," I said, giving her a keen glance. She flushed crimson. "I have felt my sorrow acutely," she replied. I made a few more general remarks, wrote a prescription for the daughter, and bade Mrs. Heathcote good-bye. About the same hour on the following morning I was astonished when my servant brought me a card on which was scribbled in pencil the name _Gabrielle Heathcote_, and underneath, in the same upright, but unformed hand, the words, "I want to see you most urgently." A few moments later, Miss Gabrielle was standing in my consulting-room. Her appearance was much the same as yesterday, except that now her face was eager, watchful, and all awake. "How do you do?" she said, holding out her hand, and blushing. "I have ventured to come alone, and I haven't brought a fee. Does that matter?" "Not in the least," I replied. "Pray sit down and tell me what you want." "I would rather stand," she answered; "I feel too restless and excited to sit still. I stole away from home without letting mother know. I liked your look yesterday and determined to see you again. Now, may I confide in you?" "You certainly may," I replied.