"That did him good!" said Growling. "Now try, can you taste anything?" and he gave him the lemon-juice and water.
"I taste a slight acid, doctor dear," said M'Garry, hopefully.
"You see what that last touch did," said Growling gravely; "but the palate is still feeble; that's nearly pure nitric."
"Oh, dear!" said M'Garry, "is it nitric?"
"You see his hearing is coming back too," said the doctor to Murphy. "Try, can he put his legs under him?"
They raised the apothecary from the bed; and when he staggered and fell forward, he looked horrified. "Oh, dear! I can't walk. I'm afraid I am—I am no more!"
"Don't despair," said the doctor; "I pledge my professional reputation to save you now, since you can stand at all, and your senses are partly restored. Let him lie down again; try, could he sleep——"
"Sleep!" said M'Garry, with horror; "perhaps never to awaken!"
"I'll keep up the galvanic influence—don't be afraid; depend upon me—there, lie down. Can you shut your eyes? Yes, I see you can: don't open them so fast. Try, can you keep them shut? Don't open them till I tell you—wait till I count two hundred and fifty. That's right—turn a little more round—keep your eyes fast; that's it. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven;" and so he went on, making a longer interval between every number, till the monotonous sound, and the closed eye of the helplessly drunken man, produced the effect desired by the doctor; and the heavy snoring of the apothecary soon bore witness that he slept.
We hope it is not necessary to assure our fair readers that Edward O'Connor had nothing to do with this scene of drunken absurdity. No: long before the evening's proceedings had assumed the character of a regular drinking bout, he had contrived to make his escape, his head only sufficiently excited to increase his sentimentality; so, instead of riding home direct, he took a round of some eight miles, to have a look at Merryvale, for there dwelt Fanny Dawson—the Darling Fanny Dawson, sister to Dick, whose devilry was more than redeemed in the family by the angelic sweetness of his lovely and sportive sister. For the present, however, poor Edward O'Connor was not allowed to address Fanny; but his love for her knew no abatement notwithstanding; and to see the place where she dwelt had for him a charm. There he sat in his saddle, at the gate, looking up the long line of old trees through which the cool moonlight was streaming; and he fancied that Fanny's foot had trodden that avenue perhaps a few hours before, and even that gave him pleasure: for to those who love with the fond enthusiasm of Edward O'Connor, the very vacancy where the loved one has been is sacred.