“I cured Grandma and Grandpa and Mrs. O’Farrel’s aunt that I worked for, and I’m going to cure you,” Eleanor said.
“No.”
Eleanor advanced on her threateningly.
“Put your arms under those covers,” she said, “or I’ll dash a glass of cold water in your face,”—and Beulah obeyed her.
Peter nodded wisely when Beulah, cured by these summary though obsolete methods, told the story in full detail. Gertrude had laughed until the invalid had enveloped herself in the last few shreds of her dignity and ordered her out of the room, and the others had been scarcely more sympathetic.
“I know that it’s funny, Peter,” she said, “but you see, I can’t help worrying about it just the same. Of course, as soon as I was up she was just as respectful and obedient to my slightest wish as she ever was, but at the time, when she was 62 lording it over me so, she—she actually slapped me. You never saw such a—blazingly determined little creature.”
Peter smiled,—gently, as was Peter’s way when any friend of his made an appeal to him.
“That’s all right, Beulah,” he said, “don’t you let it disturb you for an instant. This manifestation had nothing to do with our experiment. Our experiment is working fine—better than I dreamed it would ever work. What happened to Eleanor, you know, was simply this. Some of the conditions of her experience were recreated suddenly, and she reverted.”