As for myself, I was picked up insensible, and conveyed home upon a shutter, thereby fulfilling to the letter the ominous prophecies of Nelly, who cried the coronach over me. Two of my ribs were fractured, and for three weeks I was confined to bed with a delirious fever.
“What noise is that below stairs, Nelly?” asked I on the second morning of my convalescence.
“’Deed, Maister George, I’m thinking it’s just the servant lass chappin’ coals wi’ yer swurd.”
“Serve it right. And what parcel is that on the table?
“I dinna ken: it came in yestreen.”
“Give it me.”
“Heaven and earth! Wedding-cake and cards! Mr and Mrs Roper!”
THE WATER-CURE.
[Life at the Water-Cure; or, a Month at Malvern. A Diary. By Richard J. Lane. London: 1846.]