"I wish I could cure you!" I murmured.
"My dear girl, if you could, you would, I am sure,"--she answered--"You
are very kind-hearted. It has done me good to talk to you and tell you
all my sad little history. I shall get up presently and have my
electricity and feel quite bright for a time. But as for a cure, you
might as well try to cure my father."
"None are cured of any ailment unless they resolve to help along the
cure themselves," I said.
She gave a weary little laugh.
"Ah, that's one of your pet theories, but it's no use to me! I'm past
all helping of myself, so you may give me up as a bad job!"
"But you asked me," I went on--"did you not, to tell you why it is that
I am contented and happy? Do you really want to know?"
A vague distrust crept into her faded eyes.
"Not if it's a theory!" she said--"I should not have the brain or the
patience to think it out."