Callandar let her cry.  He knew the value of those tears.  Presently when she grew more quiet he exchanged her soaking bit of cambric for his own more serviceable square.  Aunt Amy dried her eyes on it and handed it back as simply as a child.

“Pray excuse me,” she begged, “but—­the relief!  I might have died if you had not come.”  She went on brokenly.  “You see,” dropping her voice, “my relatives are queer.  They have strange ideas.  When I know things quite well they tell me I am mistaken.  Mary, my niece, laughs.  Even Esther, who tries to help me, thinks I do not know what I am talking about.  They all argue in the most absurd manner.  If I do not pretend always that I agree with them I have no peace.  Sometimes when I tell some of the things I know, Esther looks frightened and says I am not to tell Jane.  So I try to keep everything to myself.  I don’t want the children to be frightened.  They are young and ought to be happy.  I was happy when I was young—­at least, I think it was I. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it wasn’t some other girl—­I get confused—­”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the doctor calmly.  “Or about Miss Esther either.  I want to hear all about the poison.”

Aunt Amy remembered her precarious condition with a start.  Her eyes grew vague.

“I don’t know how They put it in,” she said.  “I didn’t see Them, you know.  I left my cup of coffee standing while I went to find Jane.  I heard her crying.  She had cut her finger and when I had bound it up I felt faint, so I foolishly forgot and picked up the coffee and drank it.  I wasn’t quite myself or I should never have been so careless.”

The doctor seemed to appreciate this point.  “Did you taste anything in the coffee?” he asked.

“No.  Of course They would be too clever for that!”

“And when did you begin to feel ill?”

“Just as soon as I remembered that I had forgotten to pour out a fresh cup.”  The naivete of this statement was quite lost upon the eager speaker.

Esther, who had re-entered the room, opened her lips to improve this opportunity for argument but, meeting the doctor’s eye, refrained.  Callandar took no notice of the significant admission.

“Where do you feel the pain now?” he asked.

Aunt Amy appeared disturbed.

“Mostly in my head—­I—­I think.”  She moved restlessly.

Callandar appeared to consider this.

“But I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, “that you really feel very little actual pain.  None at all perhaps?”

Aunt Amy admitted that she could not locate any particular pain.

“Weakness is the predominating symptom,” went on the doctor.  “It is, in fact, a very simple case.  All the more serious, of course, for being so simple, if we did not understand it.  But now that we know exactly what is wrong we need have no fear.”

Aunt Amy’s vague eyes began to shine.