Harriet, with her
lips to the Pommery. "She fancies she's drinking!"
The poor, misguided soul, yielded again to her distraught imagination,
amid the pitiful ejaculations of the entire company, with the exception
of one mundane, young man who, suddenly assailed by the wild fancy that
he wasn't drinking, crept furtively to the Moorish rook, and was no more
seen.
"Give her a cushion!" continued Mrs. Harriet, authoritatively.
"Mr. Brummich!" said Mrs. Bridgeman.
Mr. Brummich ran, and returned with a cushion.
"Sit down, poor thing! Sit at my feet!" said Mrs. Harriet, giving the
hysterical-looking girl a healing push.
The girl subsided in a piteous heap, and Mrs. Harriet, who had by this
time taken all her medicine, leant over her and inquired,--
"Where d'you feel it?"
The girl put her hands to her head.
"Here," she said feebly. "It's like fire running over me and drums
beating."
"Fire and drums!" announced Mrs. Harriet to the staring assembly.
"That's what she's got, poor soul!"
Ejaculations of sympathy and horror made themselves heard.
"Drums! How shocking!" cried Mrs. Bridgeman. "Can you cure even drums,
Harriet, my own?"
"Give me ten minutes, Catherine! I ask but that!"
And, so saying, Mrs.
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