“Whose picture is this?—or is it a fancy sketch instead of a portrait?” asked Mrs. Emory of Hattie, laying her finger on the head of a young girl that was spoken of before in this story.
“That? Why, it is the portrait of Little Jessie Albemarle,” said Hattie.
A deathly pallor came quicker than thought over Mrs. Emory’s face. She gasped out, “Jessie Albemarle!” and fainted.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE RIDE HOME.
A scream of terror broke from Lizzie’s lips when she saw her aunt fall back fainting, but she did not know the cause. Neither did Frank or Mr. Legare. Not even had Mr. W——, who sat talking with Frank, heard her repeat the name: “Jessie Albemarle.”
Only Hattie Butler had heard it, and seen that her agitation commenced only when told who the likeness had been taken from, and though a lightning flash could not have passed quicker than a certain thought crossed her mind, she dare not utter it then or there.
“Quick, some water!” she cried, retaining her presence of mind perfectly, as she held the head of the swooning lady on her bosom, “and some cologne—hartshorn—anything pungent. She has fainted!”
“Frank, run for our family doctor, quick! He lives but a block away. Go yourself—don’t send a servant!” cried Mr. Legare, and he hurried to get iced water from a pitcher in the room, while Lizzie ran to her room after cologne and ammonia.
But the swoon seemed so death-like that Hattie was alarmed. She began to fear that it was death. She forced a little water between the white lips, and bathed the good lady’s temples with cologne, while by her directions Lizzie put ammonia on her handkerchief and held it under her nostrils.
When the doctor arrived, in less than ten minutes, these active efforts had barely produced a tremulous sign of life.