“Oh, send for the doctor! She may die!” Mrs. Dainty was overwhelmed with distress.
“Be patient. Control yourself, Madeline.” Uncle John spoke with unusual calmness. “Get cold water and bathe her forehead and temples.”
This was done, and signs of more active life followed. A warmer color returned to her cheeks; respiration became deeper; the half-opened eyes closed, giving the look of sleep, instead of death, to her childish face.
“What is the meaning of this? What has come over the child?” said Mrs. Dainty, breathing more freely as she saw that a new and healthier action had supervened: “I don’t understand it, Uncle John.”
“There is disease of the mind, Madeline, as I have been trying for the last hour to make you understand. Its exact nature cannot at once be determined. Neither anger nor force will avail any thing: of that be fully assured.”
“But, Uncle John, she must not be permitted to have her own will entirely. That leads to ruin.”
“Of course not. The government of love, wise and gentle in all its ministrations,—not the government of angry force,—must have rule. See into what a mental paralysis your efforts to compel submission have thrown her. If her mind’s condition had been a healthy one, this would never have occurred. Deal with her, then, wisely and gently, as you would deal with the sick.”
Mrs. Dainty sighed deeply, and looked troubled.
“What does it mean, Uncle John? What is the cause of this strange affection?”
“It was not so before Mrs. Jeckyl came into the house.”