Here was an awkward affair for the physician, to be sure!  He held this power in his hands, which no remedy and no other person seemed to possess.  How long would he be chained to her; and she to him, and what would be the consequence of the mysterious relation which must necessarily spring up between a man like him, in the plenitude of vital force, of strongly attractive personality, and a young girl organized for victory over the calmest blood and the steadiest resistance?

Every day after this made matters worse.  There was something almost partaking of the miraculous in the influence he was acquiring over her.  His “Peace, be still!” was obeyed by the stormy elements of this young soul, as if it had been a supernatural command.  How could he resist the dictate of humanity which called him to make his visits more frequent, that her intervals of rest might be more numerous?  How could he refuse to sit at her bedside for a while in the evening, that she might be quieted, instead of beginning the night sleepless and agitated?

The Doctor was a man of refined feeling as well as of principle, and he had besides a sacred memory in the deepest heart of his affections.  It was the common belief in the village that he would never marry again, but that his first and only love was buried in the grave of the wife of his youth.  It did not easily occur to him to suspect himself of any weakness with regard to this patient of his, little more than a child in years.  It did not at once suggest itself to him that she, in her strange, excited condition, might fasten her wandering thoughts upon him, too far removed by his age, as it seemed, to strike the fancy of a young girl under almost any conceivable conditions.

Thus it was that many of those beautiful summer evenings found him sitting by his patient, the river rippling and singing beneath them, the moon shining over them, sweet odors from the thickets on the banks of the stream stealing in on the soft air that came through the open window, and every time they were thus together, the subtile influence which bound them to each other bringing them more and more into inexplicable harmonies and almost spiritual identity.

But all this did not hinder the development of new and strange conditions in Myrtle Hazard.  Her will was losing its power.  “I cannot help it”—­the hysteric motto—­was her constant reply.  It is not pleasant to confess the truth, but she was rapidly undergoing a singular change of her moral nature.  She had been a truthful child.  If she had kept her secret about what she had found in the garret, she thought she was exercising her rights, and she had never been obliged to tell any lies about it.

But now she seemed to have lost the healthy instincts for veracity and honesty.  She feigned all sorts of odd symptoms, and showed a wonderful degree of cunning in giving an appearance of truth to them.  It became next to impossible to tell what was real and what was simulated.  At one time she could not be touched ever so lightly without shrinking and crying out.  At another time she would squint, and again she would be half paralyzed for a time.  She would pretend to fast for days, living on food she had concealed and took secretly in the night.