The poor, misguided soul, yielded again to her distraught imagination, amid the pitiful ejaculations of the entire company, with the exception of one mundane, young man who, suddenly assailed by the wild fancy that he wasn’t drinking, crept furtively to the Moorish rook, and was no more seen.
“Give her a cushion!” continued Mrs. Harriet, authoritatively.
“Mr. Brummich!” said Mrs. Bridgeman.
Mr. Brummich ran, and returned with a cushion.
“Sit down, poor thing! Sit at my feet!” said Mrs. Harriet, giving the hysterical-looking girl a healing push.
The girl subsided in a piteous heap, and Mrs. Harriet, who had by this time taken all her medicine, leant over her and inquired,—
“Where d’you feel it?”
The girl put her hands to her head.
“Here,” she said feebly. “It’s like fire running over me and drums beating.”
“Fire and drums!” announced Mrs. Harriet to the staring assembly. “That’s what she’s got, poor soul!”