then," I admitted.

"But no words? I hope not, as people say such _silly_ things in their
sleep, don't they?--things not even true."

"I think I've heard you cry out 'Mother!' once or twice."

"Oh! And that is all?"

"Really, that's all--absolutely!" It was true, and I could speak with
such sincerity that I forced belief.

Mrs. Brandreth looked relieved. "I'm glad!" she smiled. "I hate to make
myself ridiculous. And I'm trying very hard now to control my
subconscious self, which gets out of hand at night. It's simply the
effect of my--grief--my loss I spoke of just now. I'm fairly normal
otherwise."

"I hope you're not entirely normal!" I smiled back. "People one speaks
of as 'normal' are so bromidic and dull! You look far too interesting,
too individual to be normal."

She laughed. "So do you!"

"Oh, I'm not normal at all, thank goodness!"

"Well, you're certainly interesting--and individual--far more than _I_
am."

"Anyhow, I'm sympathetic," I said. "I'm tremendously interested in other
people. Not in their _affairs_, but in themselves. I never want to know
anything they don't want me to know, yet I'm so conceited, I always
imagine that I can help when they need help--just by sympathy alone,
without a spoken word. But to come back to you! I have a lovely remedy
for restlessness at night; not that I need it often myself, but my
French-Italian maid carries dried orange leaves and blossoms for me. She
thinks _tisanes_ better than doctor's medicines. May she make some
orange-flower tea for you to-night at bedtime?"

Mrs. Brandreth had shown signs of stiffening a little as I began, but
she melted toward the last, and said that she would love to try the
poetic-sounding tea.

It was concocted, proved a success, and she was grateful. Perhaps she
remembered my hint that I never wanted to know things which my friends
didn't want me to know, because she made some timid advances as the days
went on. We had quite intimate talks about books and various views of
life as we walked the deck together; and I began to feel that there was
something else she longed to say--something which rose constantly to her
lips, only to be frightened back again. What could it be? I wondered.
And would she in the end speak, or decide to be silent?

CHAPTER III

THE CONDITION SHE MADE

I think she meant to be silent, but desperation drove her to speak, and
she spoke.

I had a headache the last day out but one, and stayed in