“Still, do you believe I never loved that darling girl?” he asked, almost in a rage. “If that man—that fellow—should die with the autumn leaves, I would at once marry Jenny, who loves me still,” he exclaimed, pacing the room like an enraged lion.
“He won’t die, however. He looks healthy and robust, and will outlive you and your affection for his wife,” I replied, with a derisive laugh.
It rained the next afternoon, as we returned home by a shorter route than via O. and B. George talked a great deal of Jenny on the way back, and said he never should get over this fearful disappointment.
“Only think of the lovely Jenny Kingsbury marrying that fellow with the bundle and the stick! O, I shall be sick over it; I know I shall.”
“Especially if you take a bad cold riding in this storm,” I added, by way of consolation. “However, you can take some of your mother’s good thoroughwort—”
“Confound the thoroughwort,” he interrupted.
“Did you know that George is sick?” asked his little brother of me the following day.
“No. Is he much sick?” I inquired, in alarm.
“O, yes; he’s awful sick—or was last night; and mother fooled him on a dose of fresh thererwort tea, which only made him sicker,” replied the little chap, turning up his nose in disgust.