Wednesday, September 25th.
We have had war in the camp. But I must explain. I noticed this morning that Phebe was cooking something very savory, but thought no more of it. Mother, Pauline, or I, have always remained with the Doctor while the others are at dinner.
To-day I thought I would remain; but Frank would not consent. Pauline said, "No, mamma, I'll attend to father," at the same time I saw that she was very much flushed and looked really distressed. Frank insisted she should remain, and I went below, wondering not a little at the meaning of all this. After I had carved for the others, I thought so much of Pauline's looks, that I excused myself a moment, and ran softly back to the room.
Judge then of my amazement when I beheld Phebe standing before her master holding a bowl, while the Doctor was putting spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, as fast as he could. Pauline stood by looking as if she were not sure whether to laugh or to cry.
I sprang forward to take the bowl; but quicker than thought, Phebe had caught it under her apron, hoping I had not seen it, while the Doctor looked like a whipped dog. The whole affair was so ludicrous, that it was with the utmost difficulty, I could keep my countenance. But endeavoring to look very stern, I said, "Dr. Frank Lenox, you will please to tell me what you have been eating?" He had already eaten a hearty dinner for a sick man, not half an hour before.
There was no reply.
"Well then," said I, "there is no help for it. I must give you a dose of castor oil." I proceeded toward the closet, as if I were intending to administer it to him at once, while I was thankful for an opportunity to relax my stern countenance.
"Cora," cried the Doctor, "don't give me any." His voice was feeble, and I could carry the joke no farther.
"Well; then, what can I do?" I asked, returning to him. "Phebe, do you know that what you were giving your master may cause his death?"