“You hold that to her nose, Mr Gordon, while I sponge her face. Mind—it’s very strong.”
“But a doctor,” panted Mr John in agony. “She has been so terribly ill. This was too much for her.”
“If you fetched a doctor, sir, he’d tell us to do just what we’re a-doing. Bathe her face and keep her head low. There, poor dear! she’s coming round. Oh, how thin and white she is!”
Mrs Dean was quite right, for under her ministrations the patient soon opened her eyes, to look vacantly about for a few moments, and murmur—
“So weak—so weak.”
“Are you better, dearest?” whispered her husband.
She smiled feebly, and closed her eyes for a time. Then with a deep sigh she looked up again, and made an effort to rise.
“Ah, that’s right,” said Mr John; “you feel better.”
“No, no,” said Mrs Dean, firmly, “not yet. She must lie still till the faintness has gone off, or she’ll bring it back,” and, with a sigh, Mrs John resigned herself to the stronger will, Mr John nodding at me, and saying in a whisper—
“Yes, Mayne; she knows best.”