horrid things, disgusting things. Sometimes they give me orders. I am to do this or that; or I am not to do this or that. Sometimes they say the same word over and over again, many times. It was that way when I went out on the battlefield to help Captain Herrick. As I ran along, stumbling over the dead and wounded, I heard these voices crying out: 'Fool! Fool! Don't do it! You mustn't do it! You're a coward! You know you're a coward! You're going to be killed! You're a little fool to get yourself killed!'”

“And yet you went on? You did not obey these voices?”

“I went on because I was desperate. I tell you I wanted to die. What is the use of living if one is persecuted like this? There is nothing to live for, is there?”

He met her pathetic look with confidence.

“I think there is, Mrs. Wells. There is a lot to live for. Those hallucinations and dreams are not as uncommon as you think. I could give you cases of shell shock patients who have suffered in this way and come back to normal health. You have been through enough, my young friend, to bring about a somewhat hysterical condition that is susceptible of cure, if you will put yourself in favorable conditions. Do you mind if I ask you straight out whether you have any objections to marrying a second time?”

“N—no, that is to say I—er——” The color burned in her cheeks and Owen took note of this under his grizzled brows.

“As an old friend of the family—I mean Herrick's family—may I ask you if you would have any objection to Captain Herrick as a husband—assuming that you are willing to accept any husband?”

“I like Captain Herrick very much, I—I think I care for him more than any man I know, but——”

“Well? If you love Herrick and he loves you——” Owen broke off here with a new thought, “Ah, perhaps that is the trouble, perhaps Captain Herrick has not told you that he loves you? I hope, dear lady, I am not forcing your confidence?”

“No, doctor, I want you to know. Captain Herrick cares for me, he loves me, he has asked me to marry him, but—I have refused him.”

“But why—if you love him? Why refuse him?”

“Oh, can't you see? Can't you understand? How could I think of such a thing, knowing, as I do, that something is wrong with my mind? It is quite impossible. Besides, there is another reason.”

“Another reason?” he repeated.

“It has to do with my married life. As I said I would rather tell you about that some other time—if you don't mind?”

He saw that she could go no farther.

“Exactly, some other time. Let us say in about two weeks. During that time my prescription for you is a rest down at Atlantic City with long walks and a dip in the pool every morning. Come back then and tell me how you feel, and don't think about those dreams and voices. But think about your past life—about those things that you find it hard to tell me. 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

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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 woman alone in New York City, earning her own living?

And how shall I tell the truth about my unhappy married life—the torture and degradation of it? The truth about my widowhood—those two gay years before the great disaster came, when, with money enough, I let myself go in selfish pursuit of pleasure—playing with fire?

As I turn over these agitated pages I feel I have tried to be honest. I rebel against hypocrisy, I hate false pretense, often I make myself out worse than I really am.

In one place I find this:

“There is no originality in women. They do what they see others do, they think what they are told to think—like a flock of sheep. Their hair is a joke—absurd frizzles and ear puffs that are always imitated. Their shoes are a tragedy. Their corsets are a crime. But they would die rather than change these ordered abominations. So would I. I flock with the crowd. I hobble my skirts, wear summer furs, powder my nose, wave my hair (permanently or not) according to the commands of fashion, but I hate myself for doing it. I am a woman!”

I am a woman and most women are liars—so are most men—but there is more excuse for women because centuries of oppression have made us afraid to tell the truth. I try to be original by speaking the truth—part of it, at least—in this diary.

On one page I find this:

“The truth is that women love pursuit and are easily reconciled to capture. Why else do they deck themselves out in finery, perfume themselves, bejewel themselves, flaunt their charms (including decolleté charms and alluring bathing suit charms) in every possible way? I do this myself—why? I have a supple figure and I dance without corsets, or rather with only a band to hold up my stockings. I wear low cut evening gowns, the most captivating I can afford. I love to flirt. I could not live without admiration, and other women are the same. They all have something that they are