In about half an hour he was aroused by the announcement that Miss Bannister had called to see him.

Long practice in that sort of thing made him wake in an instant, and the young lady who was ushered into the study had no idea that she had disturbed the nap of a tired man.  She was a very pretty girl, handsomely dressed; she had large blue eyes, and a very gentle and sweet expression, tinged, however, by an anxious sadness.

“Who is sick, Miss Dora?” asked the doctor, quickly, as he shook hands with her.

She did not seem to understand him.  “Nobody,” she said.  “That is, I have come to see you about myself.”

“Oh,” said he, “pray take a seat.  I imagined from your face,” he continued, with a smile, “that some one of your family was in desperate need of a doctor.”

“No,” said she, “it is I. For a long time I have thought of consulting you, and to-day I felt I must come.”

“And what is the matter?” he asked.

“Doctor,” said she, a tear forcing itself into each of her beautiful eyes, “I believe I am losing my mind.”

“Indeed,” said the doctor; “and how is your general health?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” answered Miss Dora.  “I do not think there is the least thing the matter with me that way.  It is all my mind.  It has been failing me for a good while.”

“How?” he asked.  “What are the symptoms?”

“Oh, there are ever so many of them,” she said; “I can’t think of them all.  I have lost all interest in everything in this world.  You remember how much interest I used to take in things?”

“Indeed I do,” said he.

“The world is getting to be all a blank to me,” she said; “everything is blank.”

“Your meals?” he asked.

“No,” she said.  “Of course I must eat to live.”

“And sleep?”

“Oh, I sleep well enough.  Indeed, I wish I could sleep all the time, so that I could not know how the world—­at least its pleasures and affections—­are passing away from me.  All this is dreadful, doctor, when you come to think of it.  I have thought and thought and thought about it, until it has become perfectly plain to me that I am losing my mind.”

Dr. Tolbridge looked into the fire.

“Well,” said he, presently, “I am glad to hear it.”

Miss Dora sprang to her feet.

“Oh, sit down,” said he, “and let me explain myself.  My advice is, if you lose your mind, don’t mind the loss.  It really will do you good.  That sounds hard and cruel, doesn’t it?  But wait a bit.  It often happens that the minds of young people are like their first teeth—­what are called milk teeth, you know.  These minds and these teeth do very well for a time, but after a while they become unable to perform the services which will be demanded of them, and they are shed, or at least they ought to be.  Sometimes, of course, they have to be extracted.”

“Nonsense, doctor,” said the young lady, smiling in spite of herself, “you cannot extract a mind.”