Bret turned with anxious, almost with superstitious query to Sheila. He found her wan and tremulous and weirdly aged. He cried out: “Sheila! What’s the matter? You’  
re ill!”
 
She tried to smile away his fears: “I had a bad night. I’m all right.”
 
But she leaned on him, and when he led her back to bed she fell into her place like a broken tree. She was stricken with a chill and he bundled the covers about her, 
 
spread the extra blankets over her, and held her in his arms, but the lips he kissed shivered and were gray.
 
He was in a panic and begged her to let him send for the doctor, but she reiterated through her chattering teeth that she was “all right.” When he offered to stay 
 
home from the office she ridiculed his fears and insisted that all she needed was sleep.
 
He left her anxiously, and came home to luncheon earlier than usual. He did not find Sheila on the steps to greet him. She was not in the hall. He asked little Polly 
 
where her mother was, and she said:
 
“Mamma’s sick. She’s been crying all day.”
 
“No, I haven’t,” said Sheila; “I’m all right.”
 
She was coming down the stairs; she was bravely dressed and smiling bravely, but she depended on the banister, and she almost toppled into Bret’s arms.
 
He kissed her with terror, demanding: “What’s the matter, honey? Please, please tell me what’s the matter.”
 
But she repeated her old refrain: “Why, I’m all right, honey! I’m perfectly all right!”
 
But she was not. She was broken in spirit and her nerves were in shreds.
 
Though she sat in her place at table, Bret saw that she was only pretending to eat. Dinner was the same story. And there was another bad night and a haggard morning.
 
Bret sent for the doctor in spite of her. He found only a general constitutional depression, or, as Bret put it, “Nothing is wrong except everything.”
 
A week or two of the usual efforts with tonics brought no improvement. Meanwhile the doctor had asked a good many questions. It struck him at last that Sheila was 
 
suffering from the increasingly common malady of too much nervous energy with no work to expend it on. She must get herself interested in something. Perhaps a change 
 
would be good, a long voyage. Bret urged a trip abroad. He would leave the factory and go with her. Sheila did not want to travel, and she reminded him of the vital 
 
importance of his business duties. He admitted the truth of this and offered to let her go without him. She refused.
 
The doctor advised her to take up some active occupation. Bret suggested water-colors, authorship, pottery, piano-playing, the harp, vocal lessons—Sheila had an ear 
 
for music and sang very well, for one who did not sing. Sheila waved the suggestions aside one by one.
 
Bret and the doctor hinted at charity work. It is necessary to confess that the idea did not fascinate Sheila. She had the actor’s instinct and plenteous sympathy, 
 
and had always been ready to give herself gratis to those benefit performances with which theatrical people are so generous, and whose charity should cover a multitude 
 
of their sins. But charity as a job! Sheila did not feel that going about among the sick and poverty stricken people would cheer her up especially.
 
The doctor as his last resort suggested a hobby of his own—he suggested that Sheila take up the art of hammering brass. He had found that it worked wonders with some 
 
of his patients.
 
Sheila, not knowing that it was the doctor’s favorite vice and that his home was full of it, protested: “Hammered brass! But where would I hide it when I finished 
 
it? No, thank you!”
 
She said the same to every other proposal. You can lead a woman to an industry, but you cannot make her take it up. St............