“A spider’s web, Madam, from which I have been freeing four flies. But one was a blue-bottle, and broke some of the threads,” said my Uncle Charles, laughing, and patting my shoulder.
“Really!” said Grandmamma. “I am pleased to see you, young ladies. Hester, my dear, are you sure you are quite well?”
“I shall be better now,” Hatty tried to say, in a trembling voice,—and fainted away.
There was a great commotion then, four or five talking at once, making impossible recommendations, and getting in each other’s way; but at the end of it all we got poor Hatty into bed in my chamber, and even Grandmamma said that rest was the best thing for her. My Aunt Dorothea mixed a cordial draught, which she gave her to take; and as Hatty’s head sank on the pillow, she said to my surprise,—
“Oh, the rest of being free again! Cary, I never expected you to be the heroine of the family.”
“I think you are the heroine, Hatty.”
“Most people would have thought I should be. But I have proved weak as water—yet not till after long suffering and hard pressure. You will never see the old Hatty again, Cary.”
“Oh yes, dear!” said I. “Wait a few days, till you have had a good rest, and we have fed you up. You will feel quite different a week hence.”
“My body will, I dare say, but me—that inside feeling and thinking machine—that will never be the same again. I want to tell you everything.”
“And I want to hear it,” I replied. “But don’t talk now, Hatty; go to sleep, like a good girl. You will be much better for a long rest.”