“There! It’s gone now, all gone! I’ve sent it right away. The fire’s out and the drums have stopped beating!”
Exclamations of wonder and joy rose up from the spectators. They were, however, a trifle premature, for the hysterical girl—who was, it seemed, a person of considerable determination, despite her feeble appearance—replied from the footstool,—
“No, it isn’t. No they haven’t!”
Mrs. Harriet developed a purple shade.
“Nonsense!” she said. “You’re cured, love, entirely cured!”
“I’m not,” said the girl, beginning to cry. “I feel much worse since you pressed my head.”
There was a burst of remonstrance from the crowd, and Mrs. Harriet, speaking with the air of an angry martyr, remarked,—
“It’s just like the drinking—she fancies she isn’t cured when she is, just the same as she fancied she was drinking when she wasn’t.”
This unanswerable logic naturally carried conviction to everyone present, and the hysterical girl was warmly advised to make due acknowledgement of the benefits received by her at the healing hands of Mrs. Harriet, while the latter was covered with compliments and assiduously conducted towards the buffet, escorted by the great Towle.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” said Mrs. Bridgeman, turning ecstatically to the person nearest to her, who happened to be the saturnine little clergyman. “Isn’t she marvellous, Mr.—er—Mr. Segerteribus?”