It seemed to me then—and with utmost conviction I uttered the feeling abroad, the while perceiving no public amusement—that the powers of doctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowed the first draught our doctor mixed—nay, no sooner had it been offered her in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself—than her soft cheek turned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had been expressionless, invited kisses in a fashion the most compelling, so that a man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were next moment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resist them; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping (my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made for kissing—else for what?—and should never go unsatisfied; they are so frank in pleading that ’twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men to feel no mad desire: which, thank God! seldom happens. But, then, what concern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples and kissing?
“’Tis a wonderful clever doctor,” said I to my sister, my glance fixed in amazement on her glowing cheeks, “that we got in Doctor Luke.”
“Ah, yes!” she sighed: but so demure that ’twas not painful to hear it.
“An’, ecod!” I declared, “’tis a wonderful clever medicine that he’ve been givin’ you.”
“Ecod! Davy Roth,” she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, “an’ how,” said she, “did you manage to find it out?”
“Bessie!” cried I, in horror. “Do you stop that swearin’! For an you don’t,” I threatened, “I’ll give you——”
“Hut!” she flouted. “’Tis your own word.”
“Then,” I retorted, “I’ll never say it again. Ecod! but I won’t.”
She pinched my cheek.
“An’ I’m wonderin’,” I sighed, reverting to the original train of thought, which was ever a bothersome puzzle, “how he can keep from kissin’ you when he puts the spoon in your mouth. Sure,” said I, “he’ve such a wonderful good chance t’ do it!”