But Janet hastened to tell her all the story,—how in his wild delirium he had spoke of no one, raved of no one, save her; and now that the fever had subsided and left him weak as a baby, how he always led the subject on to Nannie, his early love, their rambles in the pine-forest, and his cruel desertion of her, and how he always wound up with the melancholy reflection, that he knew poor Nannie would forgive him when she saw him being carried to his “lang hame.”
And so well did Janet represent the whole matter and argue her case, that Nannie gave her consent to go along with her even then. And she laughed and cried at the same time, in quite a hysterical way, as she said,—
“Well, Mistress Fowler,—he! he! he!—you know best and—he! he!—if you really think it will do the poor man good, I’ll go; and—but—oh! Mistress Fowler, I must have a cry.”
And she did.
And it really seemed to do her good; for she smiled quite calm and happy-like afterwards—the heightened flush in her cheeks making her look ten times prettier; and she was soon dressed and ready to march.
Just as she was going out, however, her countenance fell, and,—
“Oh! Mistress Fowler, my poor cat,” cried Nannie.
“Your cat?” said Janet.
“Aye, woman, my cat,” replied Nannie; “come and see the poor darling. Somehow or other it got dreadfully burnt, about three weeks ago, and it isn’t better yet; come and see.”
“That a cat!” said Janet with uplifted hands and eyes; “dearie me! dearie me!”