The COURSE of TRUE LOVE
Symptoms of my dear sister’s previous disorder now again alarmingly developed—sighs and downcast glances, quick flushes, infinite tenderness to us all, flashes of high spirits, wet lashes, tumultuously beating heart; and there were long dreams in the twilight, wherein, when she thought herself alone, her sweet face was at times transfigured into some holy semblance. And perceiving these unhappy evidences, I was once more disquieted; and I said that I must seek the doctor’s aid, that she might be cured of the perplexing malady: though, to be sure, as then and there I impatiently observed, the doctor seemed himself in some strange way to have contracted it, and was doubtless quite incapable of prescribing.
My sister would not brook this interference. “I’m not sayin’,” she added, “that the doctor couldn’t cure me, an he had a mind to; for, Davy, dear,” with an earnest wag of her little head, “’twould not be the truth. I’m only sayin’ that I’ll not have un try it.”
Her glance fell. “I’ll not tell you why,” said she.
“But I’m wantin’ t’ know.”
She pursed her lips.
“Is you forgettin’,” I demanded, “that I’m your brother?”
“No,” she faltered.
“Then,” said I, roughly, “I’ll have the doctor cure you whether you will or not!”