. It may not be necessary to tell me provided you know the truth
yourself. Will you promise that?" He smiled at her encouragingly as she
nodded. "Good! Now be cheerful. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Wells, I am
too sensible an old timer to do that. I give you my word that these
troubles can be easily handled. I really do not consider you in a
serious condition. Now then, until two weeks from today. I'll make you a
friendly little bet that when I see you again you'll be dreaming about
flower gardens and blue skies and pretty sunsets. Good morning."

He watched her closely as she turned with a sad yet hopeful smile to
leave the room.

"Thank you very much, doctor. I'll come back two weeks from today."

Then she was gone.

For some minutes Owen sat drumming on his desk, lost in thought. "By
George, that's a queer case. _Her other reason is the real one. I wonder
what it is?_"

CHAPTER II

WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL THE DOCTOR

(_Fragments from Her Diary_)

_Atlantic City, Tuesday._

I cannot tell what is on my mind, I cannot tell _anyone_, even a doctor;
but I will keep my promise and look into my past life. I will open those
precious, tragic, indiscreet little volumes bound in red leather in
which I have for years put down my thoughts and intimate experiences. I
have always found comfort in my diary.

I am thirty-three years old and for ten years, beginning before I was
married, I have kept this record. I wrote of my unhappiness with my
husband; I wrote of my lonely widowhood and of my many temptations; I
wrote of my illness, my morbid cravings and hallucinations.

There are several of these volumes and I have more than once been on the
point of burning them, but somehow I could not. However imperfectly I
have expressed myself and however mistaken I may be in my interpretation
of life, I have at least not been afraid to speak the truth about myself
and about other women I have known, and truth, even the smallest
fragment of it, is an infinitely precious thing.

What a story of a woman's struggles and emotions is contained in these
pages! I wonder what Dr. Owen would think if he could read them.
Heavens! How freely dare I draw upon these intimate chapters of my life?
How much must the doctor know in order to help me--to save me?

Shall I reveal myself to him as I really was during those agitated years
before my marriage when I faced the struggle of life, the temptations of
life--an attractive young