“Is it—­is it drink?” The words were a whisper of horror.

The doctor shook his head.

“I wish it were.  I wish it were only that.  Have you never heard of the drug habit—­morphia, opium?  That is what we have to fight—­and it is what I feared.”

“Oh!” It was a breath of relief.  To Esther, who knew nothing of drugs, or drug habits, the truth seemed less awful than the thing she had imagined.

“Is—­is it serious?” she asked timidly.

The doctor smiled grimly.  “You will see.  No need to frighten you now.  But it will be a fight from this on.”  He threw a light coverlet over the helpless figure and replacing the shade on the lamp, turned down the flaring wick.  “I will tell you what I can, but at present it is very little.  Probably this began long ago, before your father’s death.  In the first place there may have been a prescription—­I think you said she had had an illness in which she suffered greatly.  The drug, opium in some form probably, may have been given to reduce the pain—­and continued after need for it was gone without knowledge of its dangerous qualities.  Nervous people form the habit very quickly.  Then—­I am only guessing—­as the amount contained in the original prescription ceased to produce the desired effect, she may have found out what drug it was that her appetite craved.  If she saw the danger then, it was already too late.  She could not give up voluntarily and was compelled to go on, shutting her eyes to the inevitable consequences, if indeed she ever clearly knew them.”

“But now that you know?  It ought not to be hard to help her now that you know.  There are other drugs—­”

“Yes.  There is a frying-pan and a fire.  In fact I fear that she has already tried that expedient herself.  Some of the symptoms point to cocaine.  No, our best hope is in the decreasing dose with proper auxiliary treatment.  I cannot tell yet how serious the case may be.  At any rate there must be an end of the mystery.  Every one in the house must know, even Jane; for in this fight ignorance means danger.  But,” he hesitated and his face grew dark, “you cannot realise what this is going to mean.  It is my burden, not yours.  At least I have the right to save you that.  We must have a nurse—­”

A little eager cry burst from her.  “Oh, no!  Not that!  You wouldn’t do that.  You can’t mean not to let me help.”

“You do not know—­”

“I do not care what it means.  But if you won’t let me help, if you shut me out—­” Her voice quivered dangerously, but with a spark of her old fire she recovered herself.  “You cannot,” she added more firmly, “because it is my burden as well as yours.  Whatever she is to you, she was my father’s wife and I am responsible to him.  Unless extra help is really needed, no nurse shall take my place.”

“Very well,” quietly.  “Call Aunt Amy, then, and search the room.  She will sleep for a long time yet.  When she wakes there must be no more of the drug within her reach.  I must find out the amount to which she has been accustomed and arrange a decreasing dose.  But if you are to be a nurse, you know, you must expect a bad time.  It will not be easy.”