t she thinks--you gave her to understand that they are the antidote
for the poison which you know does not exist."

"No. They are the antidote for a poison which does exist--medicine for a
mind diseased."

"It's--it's like taking advantage of a child."

"So it is, exactly. I suppose you have never taken advantage of a child,
for the child's good?"

"Certainly not."

"Never told one, gave one to understand, so to speak, that a kiss will
cure a bumped head?"

"That's different!"

"Never told your school class during a thunderstorm that lightning never
hurts good children?"

"That's very different."

"And yet all the time you know that lightning falls upon the just and
unjust equally."

Esther was silent. The doctor laughed.

"I fear we are both sad story-tellers," he said gaily. "But in Aunt
Amy's case the fibbing will all be charged to my account, you are merely
the nurse. A nurse's duty is to obey orders and not frown (as you are
doing now) upon the doctor. You will find that I shall effect a cure.
Seriously, I do not believe that you have any idea of what that poor
woman has been suffering. If the delusion of living in continual danger
can be lifted in any way even for a time, it will make life over for
her. You would not really allow a scruple to prevent some alleviation of
your Aunt's condition, would you?"

The girl's downcast eyes flashed up to his, startlingly blue.

"No. I would not. I love her. I would tell all the fibs in the world to
help her. But all the time I should have a queer idea that _I_ was doing
wrong. It would be common sense against instinct."

"Against prejudice," he corrected. "The prejudice which always insists
that truth consists in a form of words."

They were now in the cool green light of the living room. Esther stood
with her back to the table, leaning slightly backward, supporting
herself by one hand. She looked tired. There were shadows under her
eyes. The doctor felt an impulse of irritation against the absent mother
who let the girl outwear her strength.

"My advice to you is not to worry," he said abruptly. "You are tired.
More tired than a young girl of your age ought to be. You cannot teach
those imps of Satan--I mean those charming children--all day and come
back to home cares at night. Will it be possible for me to speak to Mrs.
Coombe before I go?"

Watching her keenly he saw that now he had touched the real cause of the
trouble.

"I am sorry," began Esthe