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  not more than three out of the fourteen waking hours.

Swinging in a hammock in a shady nook this afternoon the conversation that floated to me under my distant tree was somewhat after this fashion.

Mrs. A. “Once I had neurasthenia. For three months I couldn’t be moved in bed, and for nine weeks I could n’t turn my head on the pillow.”

Mrs. E. “Cerebro-spinal meningitis is worse than neurasthenia. I had it four years ago, and the doctor said he’d never seen a woman live that was as ill as I was. One night my temperature was 167.”

Mrs. E. “Yes, I’m perfectly sure, or at least I think I am; I am seldom wrong on figures.”