Letty thought of John, and the police-man, and the jail, and was silent.
"John," said Mrs. Finley, "go bring me your father's horse-whip from behind the kitchen door."
"Oh, Mrs. Finley," said Letty, growing very white about the mouth, and trembling violently all over; "don't whip me; my mamma never whipped me. Oh, mamma—mamma!"
Down came the heavy whip on Letty's fair head and shoulders;—"There—take that, and that, and that!" said Mrs. Finley, "and remember that I didn't take you into my house to quarrel with my children, and break up dishes; and now take yourself up into the dark garret, and get into bed, and don't you get up till Mr. Finley comes home to dinner, and let's see if he can manage you."
Letty pushed her hair from before her eyes, and staggered to the door; then, up the stairs where they told her, into the garret; then, she groped her way to bed; then, she laid her head on the pillow; but she didn't cry—no—not even when she thought of her mamma,—the tears wouldn't come; but her head was very hot, and her hands burning. There she lay, hour after hour, talking to herself about a great many things; and had it been light enough you would have seen how flushed her cheeks were, and how very strangely her eyes looked.
"The child has a brain fever," said the Doctor to Mrs. Finley.
"No wonder," said the wicked woman, "she had such a dreadful fall down the cellar stairs. You see how she bruised her face and neck."
The Doctor looked very sharp at Mrs. Finley—so sharp that she stooped down, pretending to pick something from the floor, that he needn't see her blush.
"I don't know how I am to nurse a sick child," grumbled Mrs. Finley; "there's John Madison Harrison Polk, and Sarah Jenny Lind, and Malvina Cecelia Victoria, and Napoleon Bonaparte, four children of my own to look after. It's a hard case, Doctor."