That sod worked a complete and sudden cure in Hugh John.
He rose like a shot. Few and short were the prayers he said, but what these petitions lacked in length they made up for in fervency. He pursued his assailant down the Mill Brae, clamoured after him round the Town-yards, finally cornered him at the Spital Port, punched his head soundly—and felt better.
So that night the unfortunate young martyr to the flouts and scorns of love, instead of occupying a clay-cold bier with his (adopted) ancestors in Edam Abbey graveyard, ate an excellent supper in the new house of Windy Standard, with three helpings of round-of-beef and vegetables to match. Then with an empty heart, but a full stomach, he betook himself upstairs to his room, where presently Toady Lion came to worship, and Prissy dropped in to see that all was well. She had spread prettily worked covers of pink silk over his brushes and combs, an arrangement which the hero contemplated with disgust.
He seized them, gathered them into a knot, and flung them into a corner.
"Oh, Hugh John!" cried Prissy, "how could you? And they took such a long time to do!"
And there were the premonitions of April showers in the sensitive barometer of Priscilla's eyes.
The brother was touched—as much, that is, as it is in the nature of a brother to be. But in the interests of discipline he could not give way too completely.
"All right, Prissy," he said, "it was no end good of you. But really, you know, a fellow couldn't be expected to put up with these things. Why, they'd stick in your nails and tangle up all your traps so that you'd wish you were dead ten times a day, or else they'd make you say 'Hang!' and things."
"Very well," said Prissy, with sweetest resignation, "then I will take them for myself, but I did think you would have liked them!"
"Did you, Priss—you are a good sort!" said Hugh John, patting his sister on the cheek.