“Corning! Corning! stop! you will be sick.”
But in vain; that laugh must be laughed out; and he cannot even recover himself sufficiently to join in the vote of thanks which the men are offering to the kind friend who had given them this enjoyment.
The next morning, when I arrived, I said to M. at once, “How is Harry, to-day?”
“Not in the least the worse, by his own account; but I hear Little Corning is in bed—actually made sick, from the effects of the concert.”
This scarcely surprised me, as I had feared it, knowing that he was far from strong.
A little later in the morning, something called me over to the ward in which he was, and as I entered I heard a groan; to my surprise, it came from our little friend, who was, as M. had heard, in bed, and evidently suffering.
“Why, sergeant,” said I, “I am sorry to see that the concert has had such a bad effect.”
But at my approach the groan was turned into a hearty laugh, though it was quite plain that the suffering continued.
“Oh! Miss ——, don’t, please don’t! I can’t begin again. I ache all over in each separate muscle, and I’ve lost all faith in you.”
“I don’t want you to begin again; but what do you mean by having ‘lost faith in me?’”