University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

I STATED at the close of the chapter about
Uncle Peter's illness and the way he made
an example of himself, that he felt more indebted
to Mrs. Perrin than to any one else for
his recovery.

Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton—for he liked to
read that name on his cards—was not ungrateful
nor unmindful, he hoped, of the excellent
qualities of his neighbor; though Mrs. Perrin's
sphere of life was not his sphere of life, she
really was an excellent woman. In view of
this complaisant recognition of a fellow-being
on the part of Uncle Peter, Westley was often
commissioned to bring the good dame to tea-drinkings
with Aunt Sally, or to invite her

to accompany her friends in drives to the city,
which tea-drinkings and drives Mrs. Perrin
doubtless found a pleasure, the drives especially,
for they enabled her to give an old
friend a call, a very old friend, whom she had
known for twenty years and upwards: sometimes
to carry him a basket of apples, or a
pound of butter or cheese—he had done so
many kind offices for her that deserved some
return. Whether the cap trimming with the
turnip sprouts was among the kind offices I
cannot say, but incline to think that was not
forgotten.

Notwithstanding these small shows of amiability
and gratitude, Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
felt oppressed by an indebtedness of which he
could not rid himself. He would sometimes
(and Mrs. Throckmorton remarked, that it was
generally after eating a late supper, or the
tapping of a new cask of the nice brandy
which did him so much good) awake in the
night, and groan, as if in extreme distress;
upon which occasions “Mrs. Throckmorton”
was in the habit of saying: “Peter, what is
the matter?” And it was not unfrequently

the case, that Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton replied:
“Oh, Sally Ann! my sense of gratitude
won't let me sleep; it is as if a great
weight was oppressing me; there is a sense of
fullness that I can't give utterance to. Sally
Ann, are you asleep? Keep awake a little
while, Sally Ann, and talk cheerfully, if you
can; think of anything cheerful; I am so
weighed down, so burdened, as it were; it
would have been better if I had died, Sally
Ann; don't you think so, or don't you think
anything about me, any more? I believe you
are fast asleep. Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! I
wish I could sleep; I don't close my eyes
from one hour to another; and I dream such
ugly dreams. Sally Ann, are you asleep?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“But what can I do?”

“Shut up your eyes, and see if you can't go
to sleep?”

“Oh, Sally Ann! you think everybody
can sleep because you can; if all your system
had been racked, as mine was, by that dreadful
spell, you would find as much difference
as there is betwixt day and night; be patient,

Sally Ann; may be I won't be with you
long.”

My aunt could not resist so pathetic an appeal,
and never failed to rub open her eyes at
this point, and ask her husband if he remembered
when they were married, and how it
rained, and she spoiled her white dress, walking
in the garden, and had to put on the sky-blue
satin, the first day; and then she would
inquire if he had not been afraid, upon that
occasion, that she would draw largely upon
his purse for her wardrobe. But the relieved
gentleman seldom got further than, “My
dear Mrs. Throckmorton, I do perfectly remember
our wedding-day, and the white dress,
and the rain, and the garden-walk.” Here he
would drowse away, and continue, “I remember;
yes—no—white dress—what did
you say? Are you asleep, Mrs. Throck-k-ock
—Sally An-n-n-n?”

Here a long, heavy respiration terminated
Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton's sense of oppression,
for an hour; and Mrs. Throckmorton,
after tucking the coverlids comfortably about
his shoulders, would succeed, by continued

musings on that blessed wedding-day, in
wooing back lightly her interrupted sleep. It
might be that a blush would just have mantled
her cheek as in fancy she heard Peter for the
first time calling her “My dear Mrs. Throckmorton,”
when the whole bed would move to a
new paroxysm of the husband's discontent, and
the bride would awake but Sally Ann again.

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! where am I? Sally
Ann, wake up and speak to me, and get me
out of this dreadful state!”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton; but what can I
do?”

“Why, you can't do anything as I know of.
I was so shattered by that dreadful spell, and
then the memory of Mrs. Perrin, and all she
did for me, is just like a nightmare. I wish
I had never been sick nor seen Mrs. Perrin;
sometimes I try to think she didn't do me any
good, but I know she did; she was just the
saving of me; I'd been a corpse, Sally Ann,
but for that woman; this sensible, warm being,
would have been as kneaded mud, as the poet
says; Sally Ann! ain't you going to do anything?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton; shall I get you a
drink?”

“No, no, no, no! you can't do anything
unless you feel what I feel. How, sharper
than a serpent's tooth, it is to have a thankful
child!”

“What do you say, Mr. Throckmorton?”

“Oh, nothing; I was trying to give expression
to my feelings in the language of a sublime
and sorrowful mind; don't question my ravings
—it will make me worse. You haven't done
anything yet.”

“You said I couldn't do anything, Mr.”—

“Well, but a man don't always mean what
he says, especially when he has been broken
down, as I have. Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! I
thought, may-be, you could put your hand on
my head and stop its aching, and hold my
hands, they tremble so, and add a blanket to
the clothing, I'm all in a chill, and get up and
see what time it is, and ask me how I feel, or
some little thing like that; but it's no difference,
I couldn't stand it long any how; and
I might as well go first as last, I suppose.”

Here my aunt, weak and nervous, and a

little irritable, and a great deal alarmed, would
place her thin, trembling hand on Peter's head,
and ascertain how his pulse was, and add a
blanket to the clothing, and see what was the
time, and then in tenderest accents inquire how
he felt, and if that frightful weight seemed at
all lightened.

Uncle Peter would generally be relieved at
this juncture; and upon one occasion he was
sufficiently so to relate a dream which had
disturbed him.

“Oh, Sally Ann, how you do sleep! Just
while I was talking you went to sleep; but I
hadn't the heart to wake you, and so I tried,
hour after hour, to slumber, but all in vain;
and when I did, for a minute, get the better
of this dreadful oppression, I had a dream that
was enough to make a man crazy.”

“What did you dream, Mr. Throckmorton?”

“Oh, Sally Ann! I thought I was walking
along the meadow, and I saw one of our carriage
horses eating grass; I saw him just as
plain as ever I saw anything; and all at once,
while I looked, he turned into a great big
elephant, and swung his trunk up and down,

and looked just as mad as he could look, and
though I am not naturally a coward, you
know, Sally Ann—nobody can accuse me of
that—I felt afraid. You know I was asleep,
Sally—if I had been awake I would not have
had a fear, but I was asleep, and I was a little
scared. I never had such a feeling in my life,
Sally Ann—not when I was awake, Sally
Ann; but you see I was asleep, half as sound
asleep as you was, it may-be, though it ain't
often that I any more than just forget myself
in the course of the night. Are you asleep
again, Sally Ann?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton, I hear every
word.”

“Well, as I said, this astonishing elephant
shook his trunk at me, and it was as big, it
seemed to me, as the sill of my barn. Did
you ever see my barn sill, Sally Ann?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton, I don't know as
ever I did, but I can guess.”

“No, you can't, Sally; you don't know
nothing about it if you never saw it; you
might as well have said you knew how the
reigning emperor of Russia looked, because

you have seen Westley. What shall I compare
the trunk of that beast to, Sally Ann, that will
make you aware of its enormity?”

“Compare it to a big tree, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Well, Sally Ann, imagine a big tree with
its top all trimmed off—have you got any
imagination, Sally?”

“I don't know, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“What do you think the king looks like?”

“I think he looks like you, Peter, if you had
a gold crown on your head.”

“Why, Sally Ann, you surprise me; I had
no idea that your imagination was so brilliant.
Well, then, you can imagine the tree, denuded,
as I said.”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Well, then, imagine it swinging up and
down before your very face, and the beast
behind it big enough to have a trunk of the
diminutiveness described. Can you imagine
a beast as big as that, Sally Ann?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Well, but have you thought how big his
feet would be?”

“Oh, as big as our carriage-house, nearly,
if the roof was off.”

“Ain't an elephant's foot an ugly thing,
Sally Ann?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, so large an one
must be very, very ugly.”

“It was, Sally Ann; you can't fully get
the idea of it, but even as you see it, in your
mind's eye, I mean, you do n't wonder I was
a little stirred—a little moved, like?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton, it's a wonder
you were not frightened out of your senses;
I would have been.”

“I'll dare say, Sally Ann; but women have
no nerve—none of the qualities that go to
make up a soldier. If I had been awake, and
in my meadow, and had actually seen as huge
an elephant as I have described, and with a
trunk as large as the tree you have partly
imagined: Sally Ann, are you asleep?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton, how could I be,
and you telling about that terrible fright?”

“I was asleep, Sally Ann, you know; I
would have stood firm, all unarmed as I was,
if I had been awake; but it was in sleep, and

I started a little, as I said, but did n't run till
the big beast started at me like a battering
ram, and then I thought it discreet to fly, Sally
Ann, and set forward, or was about to set forward,
with the agility of twenty years, but it
seemed to me I couldn't run; my legs became
palsied, as it were, and refused to obey my
will, and I fell powerless, and yet I was perfectly
conscious of all the perils of my awful
situation. I tried to call, but my tongue was
like a piece of lead, and there I lay, at the
point of the bayonet, as you may say, and if it
had been to save my life I could not have
cried, nor, in fact, have stirred so much as my
little finger, and in that perilous crisis—
Can you imagine it, Sally Ann, or are you
asleep?”

“I can imagine it, Mr. Throckmorton, and
I'm not asleep.”

“Well, in that deplorable condition I lay,
and saw the beast as I have depicted, with a
trunk as big as a denuded tree, a body corresponding,
and a foot as big as our carriage
house, as you justly imagined, standing right
over me. I saw that foot uplifted—saw it
descending—and I could not so much as say,

Amen! It fell, Sally Ann — it fell on this
bosom, where thy head so oft hath lain — and
instead of crushing me as I anticipated, and
as I had a right to anticipate from the circumstances,
it fell just like a feather; did you ever
have such a dream, Sally Ann? ever think
you were falling and come down just as soft
as could be?”

“Yes, I have dreamed such dreams!”

“And, Sally Ann, do you think you felt at
the moment those dreams had possession of
your mind, anything as I felt in the catastrophe
described? for though each blow of
that preponderating foot fell so softly, just like
a feather, I may say, I could not but be apprehensive
that the next would stave me in: how
could it be otherwise, Sally Ann?”

“I do n't see, Mr. Throckmorton.

“Nor I, Sally Ann! in my own mind, I
stand exempt from censure; but I fear this
recital may have lowered your estimate of
my manhood, to think that I should not have
speared the defiant creature to death, even in
a dream, Sally Ann.”

“But, Mr. Throckmorton, you had no spear.”

“No, Sally Ann, I was all unarmed; if I had

had a weapon, I think I would have struck,
even at the risk of still further enraging the
furious animal. I did lift my arm—for at last,
after the terriblest struggles, I got a little use
of one arm. Are you asleep, Sally Ann?”

“Wide awake, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Well, I succeeded in uplifting one arm, to
fell the creature to the earth, and then—what
do you think, Sally?”

“I do n't know what to think.”

“Well, guess, Sally Ann.”

“Guess what, Mr. Throckmorton?”

“Why, guess anything: if I tell you what
to guess, it won't be guessing at all.”

“Well, Mr. Throckmorton, I guess a cow.”

“Oh, no, Sally Ann! just as I lifted my
arm to fell the extraordinary animal, it seemed
to me it was no elephant at all, but Clark
Boots, beating me, with his fist, for the rheumatism
in the heart. I couldn't strike a fellow
creature, you know, and while at that humane
employment; so I tried, once more, to run,
but he kept me still, by the asseveration that,
so surely as I attempted flight, that wretched
Doctor Tompkins would get his steaming teakettle

under my vestments, and parboil all my
unresisting limbs; so I feared to fly, for I
dreaded that treatment excessively, as you
have reason to know, and—do you hear, Sally
Ann?”

“Not one word is lost, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“And, just as it came into my mind that
my last breath was gone, and that there was
no other way but that I must sleep in a coffin,
the next time I went to sleep—an unpleasant
reflection, you know, Sally Ann—I felt a
little relief, and, opening my eyes, as I thought,
I saw Doctor Snakeroot stuffing a live pullet
in the mouth of Clark Boots. Then it was
that a joyous jerk of my whole person caused
the bed on which we repose to vibrate.
Were you conscious of the movement, Sally
Ann?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, your sudden
jump waked me?”

“Well, Sally Ann, wasn't that a dreadful
dream?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, it was.”

“Is that all you can say to your poor husband,
and when he has just escaped from the

jaws of death; for, though it was a dream, I
suffered what no money would hire me to go
through with. Oh, dear! the memory of it
seems to interrupt my regular respirations;
but if I had gone, may-be it would have been
as well!”

“Oh, my heart is too full for utterance; if
you were taken, I could not find another Mr.
Throckmorton in all the world.”

“No, Sally Ann, I don't believe you could.
I am the only one of my name that sustains
the ancient character of the Throckmortons.
Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton; of
course, I could not breathe this to another;
but you, as I may say, are a part of myself.”

“Mr. Throckmorton, you are so kind!”

“Do n't go to sleep, Sally Ann; I am a
little nervous yet; I shall never get over that
dreadful bad spell I had; and just to think
of the things they did with me, Sally Ann!
you can't begin to know the things I suffered.”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Sally Ann, I am afraid you are going to
sleep; do n't you think its nearly daylight?

its as dark as pitch in the room; not that I
am afraid of darkness; I rather like it; it calls
up a man's bravery—Sally Ann, keep awake,
and see how pretty this deep blackness that pervades
the room, is; are you asleep, Sally Ann?”

“Mr. Throckmorton, I am not asleep.”

“Ain't there something white, Sally, in that
further corner of the room? Seems to me I
see something.”

“It's only my petticoat, hung over a chair,
Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Oh, I thought it was some such thing; I
was sure the daylight was not breaking yet;
I wasn't afraid, Sally Ann; but it would n't
be any wonder, would it, Sally, if I was afraid,
after such an awful spell of sickness? you see,
it quite unstrung me; I do n't feel that my
courage is less, but I feel it in other ways.
Do you hear, Sally Ann, what I am saying,
or do n't you hear nothing? It was a big
elephant, was n't it? and its feet, and Clark
Boots, and Doctor Snakeroot, and the dress,
and Mrs. Perrin—gratitude—Sally Ann”—

Here Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton drowsed
away again. My aunt was soon in happy unconsciousness;

but the respite was a brief one.
Her hero-husband clutched hold of her arm,
with a power that would have broken a sleep
seven-fold deeper.

“Oh, Sally Ann! save me! save me!”

“Dear Mr. Throckmorton! I am right here.
What is the matter? I thought somebody
was killing you.”

“Oh, Sally Ann, I thought I was sick, and
that some devil of a doctor was dashing cold
water over me, so that I was drowning; and
I thought you were Mrs. Perrin, and I grabbed
at you to save me, and so I awoke. Seems to
me all the sheets are deluged with his horrid
cold bath; do n't they seem to you to be wet,
Sally Ann?”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton; it's all your fancy.”

“Oh, mercy! Oh, dear! that dreadful spell
has so shattered me! Sally Ann, you can't
keep awake, can you?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“But you fall asleep while I am talking,
and I can only just forget myself, all I can
do; how can you sleep so, Sally Ann? I believe
you are going now.”

“No, Mr. Throckmorton; I hear you?”

“I wish there was a light, Sally Ann; it's
company, when a man is lonesome. Did you
hear me, Sally Ann?”

“Oh, yes, I hear you,” says the good woman,
and forthwith, she rises, and strikes a light.
Uncle Peter lifts himself on one elbow, and
looks about the room, screening himself from
the observation of Mrs. Throckmorton, by lifting
the coverlet between their faces. When he
has finished his survey, not omitting to peep
under the bed, he nestles close to her, and
begs that she will talk to him a little; say
something—anything—he don't care what;
and his admiring wife, her eyes fast shut,
revives, dreamingly, the happy memories of
their bridal day; repeats how the morning
was bright, and how pretty Mr. Throckmorton
said she looked; and how they walked in the
garden, and how the young husband was vexed
because that she accepted some flowers from
Colonel Mitchel, and how they sat in the
arbor, not seeing the clouds till the rain began
to fall, and so the white dress was soiled, and
she compelled to assume the blue the first day.

Happy day! she still keeps the blue dress as
a memento of it.

He remembers the dress, perfectly, and,
in his joy, puts forth his hand to extinguish
the light, but concludes it may be more agreeable
to Mrs. Throckmorton, to leave the light
burning. Women are timid, and so it is suffered
to burn.

“Oh, Sally Ann!” he exclaimed, suddenly,
“there has a great thought come to me.”

“What, Mr. Throckmorton? But it is not
uncommon for you to have great thoughts.”

“You are a discerning woman, Sally Ann,
—few see as clearly as you.”

“You will spoil me with praise, Mr. Throckmorton.
But what did you think?”

“Would you be willing, Sally, that I should
convey away the blue dress?”

“Convey it where, and what for, dear? it's
never been out of the drawer, except to be
sunned (you know the moths will get into
things), since we were married, and I can't
think what you would convey it away for.”

“This was my thought, my dear Mrs.
Throckmorton; that dress, by its happy association,

and not by its extrinsic value, is
prized by me beyond a ruby, by us both, I
may say; and what could so well express my
gratitude as the conveyance of this article, so
valued by us both, into the hands of the
estimable Mrs. Perrin? for we must not be
ungrateful, nor unmindful that it is to that
good woman we are indebted for all we have
enjoyed posterior to that bad spell. I, Sally
Ann, would have been a corpse, a stony,
white corpse, but for that estimable woman's
interfering prevention.”

“Mr. Throckmorton, you will break my
heart.”

“Forgive me, Sally Ann, I ought not to say
corpse; I wish I had n't said corpse; corpse is
an ugly word; I don't know an uglier word
than corpse, unless it be coffin. Ugh! it seems
to me I can see one of the long red boxes now.
Look, Sally: don't the light make the shadow
of a coffin on the wall. Oh, Sally, forgive me;
it's as bad to talk about coffins as corpses, and
I really don't know which has shocked you
the most, coffin or corpse.”

“But the blue dress, Mr. Throckmorton,”

said my aunt, humbly remonstrating; “there
are two reasons why I object to your arrangement;
in the first place, the dress is dear to
me, from association, and in the next place,
it would be quite useless to Mrs. Perrin.”

“Explain, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton, why
it will be estimable to you, and inestimable to
the excellent woman to whom I must make
some fitting expression of my gratitude. I
sometimes think it would be better to die
than to live under a weight of gratitude. It's
a debt we can't pay, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton.
Of all things, it seems to me that
blue dress, that so graced your youthful form,
would be the most fitting expression of my
grateful emotions. It's daylight, my dear Mrs.
Throckmorton, clear, white daylight. Surely,
you can't feel timid now, and I may as well
put the light out. I don't like a light burning
in the night: it makes me wakeful.”

“Oh, Mr. Throckmorton, don't burn a light
on my account; I don't want any light. I
thought you”—

“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton, don't say a
word; you can't, for a moment, suppose that

my manly courage quails for a little harmless
darkness, and so why should a light burn,
unless on your account? Ah, Mrs. Throckmorton,
own that you have a woman's weaknesses.
You rather like a light, in a dark
night, and when I am asleep, don't you, my
dear?”

Aunt Sally assented, of course, and Uncle
Peter dozed once more.

In the pleasant light of the afternoon, my
Uncle found the weight of gratitude pressing
less heavily on his bosom. He begged that
Mrs. Throckmorton would offer some “infeasible
plan,” as she had objected to his; whereupon,
that worthy woman timidly suggested
the propriety of consulting the personal inclination
of the nurse. To this he immediately
and decidedly objected. The delicacy of that
excellent woman might prevent the indication
of her wishes. He would procure a pair of
cupids, or a lap-dog to amuse her leisure
hours, or an antique vase, or something else
really elegant. Mrs. Throckmorton shook her
head. She still favored the idea of consulting
Mrs. Perrin. Not the lap-dog, nor the pair

of cupids, nor the vase, would be prized; she
was sure of that. So, after much deliberation,
and various propositions, it was finally determined
that Westley should be dispatched with
the best carriage to bring Mrs. Perrin to drink
tea.

In due time, she was set down at the door.
She carried in her arms a great bundle, comprising
no less than three meal bags and two
sheets. This was work for the afternoon.
Sewing was mere play, at best, she said; she
always felt as if she was doing nothing when
using her needle.

Mr. Throckmorton wore ruffles, and his diamond-pin,
in honor of the guest; and, as she
sewed up the bags, made various artful attempts
to ascertain what small addition to her
present possessions would be acceptable. A
black silk dress Mrs. Perrin already had. To
be sure, she had owned it, and occasionally
worn it, for twenty years; still it was about
as good as new, and if she had the money to
get one with, she didn't know as she should
buy a black silk dress.

“You see,” said Uncle Peter, hitching his

chair a little closer to her; “I am a grateful
man, Mrs. Perrin, and to you I owe my life, I
may say, and if I could persuade you to accept
some trifle—some antique, or something or
other, of a high style of art, it would really be
another charity.”

“Grateful? nonsense! what have I done
for you? And I am sure I shouldn't know
what to do with an antique, if I had it, and it's
no use for a body to have what they don't
know the use of.”

It was fearful to be indebted to any fellow-being,
as he was. “Why, just think of it,
Mrs. Perrin,” said Uncle Peter; “I was almost
a dead man, and you came and enervated
me. I should have been in my shroud but
for you; and so I said to Mrs. Throckmorton,
last night; or, more strictly speaking, I said I
should have been a corpse but for you. I
said corpse, though, on remembering that
corpse was a word disagreeable to the ear of
Mrs. Throckmorton, and especially since my
bad spell, I amended the form of speech, and
instead of saying I should have been a corpse
but for you, I said I should have been in my

coffin, but for you; and it is true, I certainly
should now be a corpse, in my coffin, but for
your tender solicitude. Pardon my use of the
words corpse and coffin, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton;
I will not use the words corpse and
coffin again. And now, my excellent Mrs.
Perrin, what will you accept at my hands?”

“What nice, great bags!” she exclaimed,
holding one up admiringly. “They make a
body feel almost rich. One is to hold bran,
for my cow, and two are for flour.”

“What say you to a lap-dog? I will try to
get one, of the King Charles breed; they're
very beautiful.”

“Get along with you!” exclaimed Mrs.
Perrin; “I would as soon be caught with a
sheep on my shoulder, as with a dog on my
lap.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! what can I do?”

“Just do nothing at all for me, except to
send for me when I can do any good. Why,
I had a real pleasant visit the time I stayed
here all night.”

Mr. Throckmorton withdrew to the open air,
—he felt that he was stifling, and my aunt,

by a little praising of the bags and sheeting,
soon worked herself into the confidence of her
guest, and, without obtrusive inquisitiveness
or patronizing overtures, managed to get at
one of her long-cherished wishes. Mrs. Perrin
would really like to visit one of her children,
in a neighboring state, if she had a little spare
money.

Mrs. Throckmorton remained discreetly
silent, but resolved that the necessary funds
should be at her disposal.

Great was the joy of Uncle Peter, when he
learned that he could pay his debt of gratitude;
but the joy was of short duration, and Mrs.
Perrin had no sooner packed her black silk
dress, than an uneasy feeling took possession
of his heart. He hoped she would make her
visit a short one. To be sure, he was glad to
have her make the visit, but two things still
oppressed him: the sense of gratitude was in
nowise lightened—he was perfectly satisfied
that money could not pay for some things, and
he was still under as great obligations as ever;
and then, suppose he should get sick, and that
estimable woman be out of the neighborhood,

a hundred or two hundred miles away! the
thought was a terror to him.

Mrs. Perrin was advised of his uneasiness,
and when she told him she should not be from
home more than two weeks, and that he looked
so well she thought it would be quite impossible
for him to get sick, if he should try, he
almost concluded it would be so, and, ashamed
of the fears he had expressed, shook hands
cordially and wished her good-bye.

But when it was certainly known that there
was no fire on Mrs. Perrin's hearth, and that
her old cow had been sent to one of the neighbors,
and that the door was locked, and the
windows dark at night, there came a change
over the spirit of Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton.

He insisted that the lamp should burn all
night. Something might happen; there was
always danger. He was more fearful for Mrs.
Throckmorton than for himself. Two or three
restless nights went by, and Westley was required
to sleep within call, in case of a sudden
and severe attack. My poor aunt! it was
little rest she had. During the day her husband
was less apprehensive, but at night-fall

he would begin to inquire how he looked, and
whether Sally Ann thought he would be able
to rest at all. He would count on his fingers
the number of days Mrs. Perrin had been
away, and calculate the probabilities of her
returning sooner than she had proposed.
“Don't you think she will get tired, and feel
disposed to return, Sally Ann?”

Mrs. Throckmorton would assure him that
nothing was so likely as that Mrs. Perrin
would return earlier than she had intended.
There was no place like home, especially to
old people, she would say.

“May-be she has got home, now,” Uncle
Peter would suggest. “Had we not better
send Westley, Sally Ann? She may be at
home, and hurt at our want of attention;”
and so, after a week had passed since her
departure, Westley was sent regularly to her
house each night to see whether she had not
come back; and night after night, as he returned
with the intelligence that she was not
to be found, Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton felt
the probabilities of a sudden and severe attack
increasing.

He was one evening observed to take the
measurement of his breadth of shoulder and
waist very exactly, and such a measurement
he repeated nightly, afterwards, and though
he could not discover any visible diminution
of his dimensions he could not resist a belief
that he was falling away. The effect of that
bad spell, he said, remained in his system, and
he was sure that, sooner or later, he must fall
a victim to the villainous experiments practised
upon him.

And, in truth, his friends inclined to the
belief that he was not far wrong. His constitution
had really been unhinged by the contradictory
and sudden transitions of treatment
to which he was subjected.

Ten days of Mrs. Perrin's absence had been
worried through: for Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
had not only the old weight of gratitude
to crush him, but the fear of a relapse added
thereto. It was no wonder he grew nervous.
The tenth night came. Westley returned
from his errand of inquiry—with intelligence
that Mrs. Perrin had not appeared, and Mr.
Throckmorton protested that the measure,

which fitted about his waist a week before,
would then lap a hand's breadth; and, after
surveying himself in the glass, and repeatedly
questioning my aunt as to his appearance and
the probability of his becoming a corpse before
morning, the lamp was lighted, Westley
stationed at the door, in case he should be
needed, and, groaning and prophesying evil,
the miserable man retired.

It was near midnight, when Sally heard
the familiar call, “Oh dear! Oh mercy! I
knew it would be so. I am taken! Sally
Ann; I am taken! Can't you never wake,
woman? Oh, if I could sleep as you do!
Hour after hour I lie awake here, and you
asleep. Oh, Sally Ann! look at me, and see
if I ain't very sick; white as my shirt, ain't I,
Sally Ann? Yes, I know I am: there is no
need that you should tell me. Say, Sally
Ann, ain't I as white as the sheet?”

She was soon astir. “Dear Mr. Throckmorton,
what is the matter?” she said.

“Oh, Sally Ann! I am so dreadful sick; I
believe I shall be worse than I was before,
and no Mrs. Perrin to do for me. Wake

Westley, and send him; may-be she got back
in the night. If she is at home, tell him to
bring her without loss of time; every minute
is worth its weight in gold. Oh, is he not
awake yet? He ought to be half-way there.
Call him, Sally Ann; louder! louder! louder!
Button his waistcoat for him; he'll never get
dressed. Westley! your master is almost
gone! Sally—Sally Ann—I can't hardly
speak; see if I ain't very bad; tell me what
you see; if there's any signs of immediate
dissolution? Oh, Sally Ann, you wouldn't
tell me, if you did see the fatal color on my
lips. Oh dear! Oh mercy! Oh my!”

“Where do you feel so bad? Can't you
tell me, Mr. Throckmorton?”

“Oh, it's all over; I'm sick all over, Sally
Ann; if that skillful woman was only here!
Is that boy yet there, do you think? Well,
how far do you think he has got, Sally Ann?”

“I think he is about half-way—a little
more than half-way, may-be.”

“Oh, Sally Ann! don't you think he is
further?”

“Not much further, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Oh, he must be, Sally! He has sense
enough to put spurs to his horse, hasn't he,
Sally Ann?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Throckmorton! I Think Westley
will ride fast.”

“Oh, I wish he was back! Do you think
she will be at home, Sally Ann?”

“I am afraid not, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Oh, Sally Ann, it's cruel to say so; how
do you think I am now, Sally Ann? any
worse? But I know I am worse; it's no use
to ask you.”

I need not repeat all that Mr. P. I. T.
Throckmorton said on the memorable night
about which I am writing. Let it suffice, that
Mrs. Throckmorton was sent down stairs to
bolt and bar the doors, lest Mr. Clark Boots,
or Doctor Snakeroot, or some other of the tribe
whom the nervous man regarded as his tormentors,
should by one or another means
obtain admittance and make an end of him;
that she was sent to the window a dozen
times to ascertain if Westley were coming;
required to bring a looking-glass to the bed-side
that my calm and courageous uncle

might survey himself, and know accurately
how much he had fallen away in the last hour
of suffering; and that she was further directed
to bring the measuring string, and pass it
about the shoulders and waist of the agonized
man, and repeat, again and again, how very
ill she thought he was, and whether the attack
was not more violent than the first, and how
soon she thought Westley would come, and
what were the probabilities of Mrs. Perrin's
accompanying him, and whether she could do
any good if she did come, and if she could
do him good, how much she could do, and
how soon she could do it. All these things
and many more she was expected to do and
say in the space of half an hour.

Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton had just announced
it as his firm conviction that he
should not survive much longer, when the
servant returned. Mrs. Perrin was not with
him.

“Oh dear! Oh mercy!” he cried. “Come,
Westley, and look your last on your old
master. Don't grieve for me, Sally Ann; I
hope some other will fill my place, and be

more comfort to you than I have ever been.
Do n't cry, Sally Ann; we should have to part
sooner or later, and we should never be ready.
Seems to me, I heard somebody say a new
doctor had come to the village.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Westley, “there is a
new doctor, and they say he can nigh about
raise the dead.”

“Go, Westley, and bring him, quick as you
can. May be the breath of life can be kept in
me till he gets here. Sally, do you think the
breath can be kept in me till the doctor gets
here?”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, I think so.”

“Do you think he can do me any good,
Sally Ann? It will be like raising the dead,
you know. Sally Ann, tell me I ain't so bad
as I think I am; but I expect I am worse
than I think I am; but, Sally Ann, tell me I
am not so bad. Ain't I awfully white, Sally
Ann? Say you do n't think I am, Sally Ann.”

Sally Ann, said she did n't think he was
very white; she did n't see, in fact, that he
was much changed at all.

But Uncle Peter, replied that it was useless

for her to say what she did not think; he
knew he must look very bad, and as white as
a corpse, and if she thought he was dying, it
would be better to say it; there was no use in
trying to deceive him. And so, do as she
would, my aunt could not please the nervous
and irritable man.

A loud and quick ringing of the bell put an
end to the disputation as to whether he were
as white as a corpse.

“Sally Ann, if that is the doctor, you must
tell him how I am; I can't speak above my
breath; I feel myself sinking every moment.
He must move very slow; I guess he is a man
of no energy. Sally Ann, tell me what you
think about his energy. Oh dear! Oh mercy!
I wish I had not sent”— The sentence was
cut short by the entrance of the doctor.

He was a slight old man, with a large head,
and thin grey hair, a mild and benevolent
countenance, and wearing a benign smile.

“This is the patient, I suppose?” he said to
Mrs. Throckmorton, waving one hand toward
the bed, but passing to another part of the
room.

“Yes, doctor, and he is very impatient. I
wish you would look at his tongue, and
examine his pulse, if you will be so kind;”
and, taking up the lamp, she moved toward
the bed, but on reaching it discovered that
the doctor remained motionless. His face was
turned from the invalid, and his hand was
pressing down his eye-lids. She observed him
with bewildered surprise, still holding the
lamp, and expecting some motion, but for
at least five minutes the doctor retained his
position. Uncle Peter, meantime, raising himself
on one elbow, assumed a look of indignation,
as well as of despair.

“Pardon me, my dear madam,” said the
doctor, at last, in a tone so gentle it was impossible
not to pardon him; “I was trying to
get an impression of my patient.”

“What does he say he is trying to get,
Sally Ann?” asked the sufferer, but my aunt
could only shake her head, dubiously.

“The patient, I think,” resumed the doctor,
“has not been ill a very great length of time;
that is the impression I get. Am I correct,
madam?”

“You are correct; it is only to-night that
he has been seriously affected.”

“Ah! I thought so. I could not see him
sick any length of time back.”

Here he closed his eyes again, and remained
silent for five minutes more, when, dropping
his hand from his eyes, he asked whether the
patient were not a slight man, like himself:
that was the impression he received.

Sally Ann informed him he was quite to the
contrary.

“Well, madam, I had two impressions,”
replied the doctor. “I first saw a stout man,
a very stout man. We can't always tell what
impression to trust, provided we get more than
one, as is often the case.”

“He must be a wonderful man,” whispered
my aunt to her uneasy lord.

“It is strange,” resumed the doctor, musingly,
“how reliable impressions are—how much
more reliable than the conclusions of reason.
The poet beautifully said, long before our
doctrine prevailed, that is, to any great extent,
—for it has in all ages had its adherents—

“He seems to know a good deal,” whispered
my aunt, and Uncle Peter smiled, and said he
felt a little easier.

The doctor now bowed his head very low,
and, after a silence of five other minutes,
opened his eyes and illuminated the minds
of his listeners with an impression. He recognized
in his patient a middle-aged man:
that was to say, not a very young man, nor
yet a man a hundred years old. This impression
was also correct, and educed new signs
of astonishment.

“Oh dear! Oh mercy! I should like to
have you do something for me, if you are
ever going to. I can't survive this way,” said
Uncle Peter.

The doctor arose slowly, and, adjusting his
spectacles, approached the bed, where he
waved his hands slowly up and down, before
the sick man's eyes, into which he looked
steadily with his own.

“I don't want to be fanned; Oh, mercy!
I don't want to be fanned. Tell him so,
Sally Ann. I am all in a chill now; tell
him that, too, Sally Ann.”

“You hear his request,” said the meek
woman.

“My dear friend, I am not fanning, but
mesmerizing you. Don't you feel easier?”

“Oh, dear! I can't tell how I feel. Ask
Sally Ann.”

Mrs. Throckmorton thought he felt better;
upon which her husband concluded that he did
feel better.

“Feel any disposition to sleep?” asked the
doctor.

“Oh, mercy! Do you think a dying man
can sleep? No, I don't feel like sleeping;
do I, Sally Ann?”

“No, my dear Mr. Throckmorton, I think
you do not.”

“No, doctor, I knew I didn't.”

“Oh, I don't mean a natural sleep, but a
mesmeric sleep. Don't you feel a winking
of the eye-lids!”

“Sally Ann, do you think I feel any winking

of the eye-lids. Tell the doctor what you
think.”

“Well, Mr. Throckmorton, I think you do
a little—a very little.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Well, I suppose
I do. But can't you do something more? I
can't live long this way.”

“Are you in a state of physical pain, sir?
Exteriorly you do not present any alarming
symptoms;” and the doctor pressed two of his
fingers on the eye-lids of my uncle for some
moments. “Now sir,” he said, “see if you
can open your eyes.”

He at once opened his eyes.

“Did you find it hard to do so? Did they
not incline to remain closed?”

“No, sir, not as I know of; they opened
themselves.”

The doctor said his patient was not impressible;
he would proceed to administer a composing
draught, after which he should, he
thought, have no difficulty in putting him to
sleep.

He now requested to have a glass of fresh
water brought, and gave particular charge

that the tumbler should be rinsed perfectly
clean, and that the bearer should not on any
account touch a drop of its contents. Uncle
Peter looked anxiously at Sally Ann, but she
was mystified, and that to her was as much
as to be edified. She smiled encouragingly,
and he seemed to take heart. The water
was brought, but the doctor, after looking at
and tasting it, discovered signs of a human
touch about it, and Westley was dismissed to
refill the glass. He muttered something, as
he went, to the effect that he was bidden by
a great old fool, but no one heard him.

“Ah, that will do,” said the doctor, as the
fresh water was brought him, and taking it
in his hand he touched it with the tip of one
finger, and afterwards tasted it. He then pronounced
it a healing article, and proceeded to
administer one tea-spoonful.

Mr. Throckmorton looked at his wife, to
ascertain whether he felt any better; but she
appeared uncertain, whereupon he began to
groan. The draught was not of sufficient
power, the doctor said, and Westley was
directed to walk in a northerly direction till

he should see a well, to draw water from the
north side of it, and return speedily. All this
was accomplished in the course of half an
hour. Tumblers of water from the different
sources were then mingled, and the doctor
wet the tips of two fingers in it, after which,
he added a drop or two from a small vial that
he carried in the left pocket of his waistcoat.
Another tea-spoonful was now administered,
which he had no doubt would compose his patient
in a few minutes.

“Oh, Sally Ann, do you think it will compose
me? I can't see, for the life of me, how
it will do any good to give me water to drink.
I have drank water all my life, and it don't
keep these bad spells off. Oh, dear! Oh,
mercy! can't you do something else—something
more efficient?”

“I will have you easy in a few minutes,”
said the doctor, and forthwith commenced
manipulations, but instead of quieting, they
seemed only to irritate.

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Oh, Sally!” were
constantly cried.

“There must be,” said the doctor, “an

internal disorder of which I am not cognizant.
I will send at once for my clairvoyant, Mrs.
Charity Seeaway.”

“Oh, do anything; do something. I can't
live long in this state.”

Another dose of the water was administered,
and Westley dispatched for the clairvoyant.

It seemed a great while to the querulous
invalid before his return, for Mrs. Charity
Seeaway lived six miles away, in another part
of the town. It would be tedious to tell all
that my aunt had to say and do in the meantime,
and all the wonderful cures the deserter
from Galen told of. It was evident that
Uncle Peter did not understand the new mode
of treatment, and was not altogether satisfied,
but in the absence of Mrs. Perrin what could
be done? Anything seemed better than a
resort to his old tormentors. It was an hour
after sunrise, when the little nervous woman
arrived.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Seeaway,” said the
doctor, shaking her cordially by the hand;
“I am so glad you are come. We have a

very critical case, here. Don't suffer your
eyes to rest on the patient, if you please, but
at once put yourself to sleep, and allow me to
profit by your observation of the patient's
interior.”

“Yes, sir. The initials of the patient's
name, if you please?”

“P.I.T.T.”

“Yes—that is all;” and Mrs. Charity Seeaway
sat herself down, and stared at nothing.
Presently her eyes began to wink, and
in a moment more they were fast shut, and
she breathed heavily.

“She is now in what we term the clairvoyant
state,” said the doctor, and he proceeded
to question her: “What do you discover,
my dear Mrs. Seeaway?”

She seemed to speak with difficulty, but
answered, “I see a diseased man.”

“Yes; go on.”

“I see a black spot on the left lung.”

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Oh, Sally Ann!”
exclaimed Uncle Peter, “come and place your
hand on my left side; there is a dreadful pain
there.” And, lifting himself on one elbow, he

gazed at the sleeping Charity, in an agony
of despair.

“I see a bottle,” she continued, “I think
the diseased man I see has been in the habit
of drinking too much spirituous liquor.”

“What more, Mrs. Seeaway?”

“I see a fever, a little way in the future.
He is to have a long and severe illness.”

Uncle Peter held the hand of Sally as if life
depended on it, and the devoted wife began to
shed tears profusely.

“What do you see now?” asked the doctor.

“Nothing more.”

“Well, how far in the future can you see
this diseased man?”

“I can see him just three weeks ahead.”

“No further?”

“No, I can't see him any further.”

Uncle Peter grew actually white, and
begged that Westley might at once be sent
to bring Mrs. Perrin: not that it was likely
he should live to see her, but he would like
to have her attend his funeral, and to comfort
his beloved Sally Ann at that afflicting
time.

Westley soon departed, with directions to
make all convenient speed.

“Don't spare horses, and don't spare
money. And now look at me, my good
Westley; may-be you will never see me
again.”

Westley did look at his master, but if a
thought of not seeing him again gave him any
uneasiness, he did not manifest it.

“Calm yourselves,” said the doctor; “it does
not certainly indicate your death, that this
woman can only see you for three weeks.
You disappear at that time, but you may be
well at that time; and how can the clairvoyant
see a diseased man, when you are a
well man?”

Uncle Peter thought he breathed a little
easier, and reclined on his pillow, looking
more earnestly at heaven than he had ever
looked till then.

“Can you see any remedies for the diseased
man, my dear Mrs. Seeaway?”

“Yes; I see a bottle, filled with what seems
to be sugar of the maple tree, and I see a
quantity of the berries of the currant bush,

and I am impressed to say that, if a tea-spoonful
of the berries is added to every tablespoonful
of the sugar, and the mixture placed
in the sun for half an hour, it will become
curative to the diseased man I see.”

“What more do you see?”

“I see quantities of weak herbs, and quantities
of bitter herbs, and I am impressed to say
that if a poultice be made of the weak and
bitter herbs, and applied to the chest of the
diseased man, it will be of benefit to him. I
can now see tubercles forming in his lungs,
and three weeks is the furthest I can see him
at all.”

Here Mrs. Charity Seeaway began to tremble
and twitch, and presently she unclosed her
eyes and sat upright.

Bitter and weak herbs were procured, the
poultice made and applied, and the maple
sugar and currants placed in the sun, mixed
as the clairvoyant directed.

Through the day, my uncle thought himself
a little better, but when the evening
shadows began to steal through the windows,
he grew suddenly worse, and, an hour after

dark, the doctor, with his clairvoyant, was recalled.
He saw no alarming symptoms. He
strove to quiet his patient by a few manipulations
and some cheerful words, but he
could not thus be solaced.

“Oh, Sally Ann!” he cried, “do get him
to do something; but I don't want that
woman to look into me. Oh, dear! Oh,
mercy! there never was a man cured who
was as bad as I am, was there? Oh, doctor,
what are you going to do? Oh, Sally Ann,
get him to do something. May-be it would
prevent this dreadful fever to take a little
blood. Oh, my!”

“Have you a pine table at hand?” asked
the doctor, of Mrs. Throckmorton.

“Oh, gracious! mercy! mercy! Is the
man about to dissect me, before I'm dead?
Oh, Sally Ann, don't let him dissect me, right
before my face and eyes. Seems to me I hear
a sound like grinding a knife. Sally Ann,
remember that I am bone of your bone. Oh,
if Mrs. Perrin, that excellent woman, was
only here! it seems to me, if I could see her
old black dress, it would do me good. Sally

Ann, see what that man and woman are
doing.”

“Don't be alarmed, my dear sir,” said the
doctor, compassionately, “we only want to
see if we can get some manifestations. You
will allow us to have the table for that purpose,
surely.”

“Manifest what, do you say, sir? Sally
Ann, do you know what he means? He is a
dreadful man to me.”

Here the doctor entered into some explanation,
looking piteous and benevolent in view
of the great ignorance of his patient. The
pine table was produced, and Mrs. Throckmorton
was invited to assist in forming the
circle, which she did, looking tremblingly at
Uncle Peter.

“Is there a spirit present?” asked the doctor,
after a silent sitting of some minutes. All
listened, with heads inclined toward the table,
but no response was heard.

“I fear,” he said, “we shall not be able to
get any manifestations to-night; some cause
we can't conceive of, prevents.”

“See that?” exclaimed Mrs. Charity Seeaway,

in a lively tone, looking at one of her
hands.

“No,” said the doctor, “I saw nothing. I
think, though, I feel a slight vibration in the
table. Mrs. Throckmorton, do you see anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you feel any peculiar sensation in your
hands?”

“No, sir.”

“There! I thought I heard a rap on the
floor! Did you hear anything, Mrs. Seeaway?
Did you, Mrs. Throckmorton? There! I felt
it distinctly, then, under my right foot. It's
a bad spirit, and comes up from below.”

“There has one got hold of my hand!”
exclaimed the clairvoyant. “See that! see
that!” And, as she spoke, her hand began to
move about the table, very slowly at first, and
then with greater velocity — now at one side,
now at the other. Presently, the hand of
my amazed aunt was violently pushed off the
table.

“Excuse the spirit, madam,” said Charity;
“it means to indicate that you destroy the

harmony. We shall get better manifestations
without you.”

Obedient to the supposed indication, she
withdrew to the bedside, to administer such
consolation as her kind heart suggested.

Poor, dear, faithful Aunt Sally! that was
a trying time to her. It was not long before
the table began to move from side to side,
under the hands of the doctor and his clairvoyant,
and it was announced that a tipping
spirit was come.

“What has the spirit to communicate?”
was the first inquiry.

A series of tips followed, which being interpreted
meant that the spirit was the deceased
brother of Mrs. Throckmorton. But my good
aunt meekly affirmed that she never had
had a brother, upon which it was concluded
that the spirit had been misunderstood, or
that it was a bad spirit, which was not
improbable, and they proceeded to test its
truthfulness.

“Can't you rap?” was asked of the invisible
intelligence.

But the spirit indicated, by tips, that it

could not rap, unless a circle should be
formed.

“Let us call a good spirit to drive it away,”
he said; “it is evidently a mischievous
spirit.” Then both cried, with great earnestness:
“Get away with you! Begone, bad
spirit! we won't talk with you. Go away,
and let a good spirit come.”

The table was in rest, and it was believed
that a good spirit was present, and had driven
out the other. It was also thought that some
more satisfactory manifestations would shortly
be obtained.

The man and woman changed positions at
the table, to produce a greater degree of harmony,
and, after sitting nearly an hour, Mrs.
Seeaway became quite confident that there
was a faint tapping under the thumb of her
left hand. The doctor thought he felt vibrations,
but he might be deceived; the groans
of the patient might produce the jar. I have
not attempted to record all the painful exclamations
uttered by the miserable man during
the progress of these manifestations. But notwithstanding
the unfavorable intervention of

the groans, the raps became audible before
long, when a conversation, something as follows,
ensued:

“Does the spirit wish to communicate?”

“Yes.” This response was, of course, rapped
out through the alphabet.

“Of what nature is the communication the
spirit wishes to make?”

“Remedial.”

“It has come to do you good, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“Can you give us a prescription?”

Here Mrs. Charity Seeaway affirmed that
the spirit said “yes,” and the doctor inclined
to the opinion that it said “no;” whereupon
the interrogatory was repeated, and both, this
time, agreed that the response was a plain
affirmative.

“We are ready to hear it,” said the doctor.
“Mrs. Seeaway, charge your memory with
every word; life may be depending on it.
Now, spirit, will you be so kind as to please
to favor us with the prescription?”

Raps, calls of the alphabet, and groans,
mingled together; but, after half an hour,

Mrs. Seeaway was enabled to repeat this
important direction: “Take one bird's egg,
and one ounce of the oil of corn, and a small
piece of the flower of mustard, and two leaves
of the mountain herb called tansy: stir together
with the forefinger of a child, not five
years old; place the mixture in the sun for
five minutes, and feed it, at intervals, and in
small quantities, to a male cat — the best shoes
of the patient being, meantime, placed on his
pillow.”

“Has the spirit anything further to suggest?”

“Yes.”

“Will the spirit be so good as to please to
tell us what to do, to make this poor sick man
well?”

“Yes, the spirit says it will,” announced
Mrs. Seeaway; “but, Mrs. Throckmorton, it
stipulates that you and the doctor shall leave
the room meanwhile. Do you object, madam?
Spirits are so particular.”

Oh, Sally Ann!” exclaimed Uncle Peter,
catching the trembling wife by her dress,
“Don't leave me! Oh, for mercy's sake,

don't leave me with that unnatural woman!”

The doctor tried, in vain, to conciliate his
patient, but he persisted in the decision that he
would not be left alone with the “unnatural
woman.”

“Won't the spirit be good enough to write
the prescription if we remain in the room?”
asked the doctor; and Mrs. Charity Seeaway
responded that, if they would cover their eyes,
the spirit consented to communicate.

This was acceded to, and the spirit proceeded
to say, a young pig must be bled,
under the right ear, between the hours of
one and two, that night, for the relief of the
patient.

“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy!” exclaimed my
querulous uncle; “it all looks to me like the
greatest foolishness in the world. I don't see
how it can do any good, to feed a cat, and
bleed a pig, and place my shoes on my pillow.
Oh, Sally Ann, can you see how it can do any
good to a dying man like me? Oh, mercy!
Oh, dear!”

“We can't,” said the doctor, “understand

the connection of these things with your wellbeing.
Doubtless, however, there is a connection,
and you might experience almost miraculous
relief from that which, to our ordinary
apprehension, would seem foolishness.”

Mrs. Charity Seeaway here informed us
that the spirit impressed her to believe that
Mr. Throckmorton could only escape death
through spiritual agency.

What a running to and fro there was, for
the young pig, the mountain tansy, the flower
of mustard, the cat, and all the other things
thus recommended! The shoes were placed on
the pillow; the doctor soothed and encouraged,
and Mrs. Seeaway gave out her impressions;
but the patient could not discern that
he was at all relieved. My poor aunt was
scarcely able to stand up, at daybreak, but
she gathered courage from the fact that her
idolized lord was really better, though he
knew it not. The doctor said so, and Mrs.
Seeaway affirmed, in her clairvoyant state,
that the black spot had disappeared entirely
from the left lung. When the sun rose, the
doctor and his medium were permitted to

retire. The patient felt some slight alleviation,
he thought; indeed, he could not tell
what made him so bad. His appetite was
better than common, and everything tasted
good to him. He was not in any pain, and
he thought he could not have much fever, or
he would know it. Still, that he was very
sick, was certain, and he often besought my
aunt, in the course of the day, to tell him
what made him so bad; but she was puzzled
no less than he, to know what caused him to
be so — she only knew he was bad. Once
or twice she closed her eyes, in forgetfulness;
but he seemed to know, instinctively, though
fast asleep, when such was the case. He was
impressed, he said, to ask for water, or for
food, as often as that faithful woman became
unconscious. She saw the sun set, with tearful
eyes; she feared that Peter would not survive
the night. She did not fear on her own account,
but blamed herself that she should get
tired or sleepy at all. “If Mr. Throckmorton
were only well!” was all she could say.

“Oh, Sally Ann! if I was well, I would not
ask for anything else. Do you think I can

live till that excellent woman, Mrs. Perrin,
arrives?”

It was the conviction of my aunt that dissolution
would not immediately take place,
but she dared not ask herself how soon she
might be deprived of her Peter.

As the time went by, he became more impressed
with the notion that he should not
live till morning. “Oh, Sally Ann!” he exclaimed,
“I might as well call executioners,
and write my will. Yes, Sally Ann, my will
and testimony.”

Uncle Peter, propped on pillows, and with
the open Bible for a desk, had written—“I,
Peter I. T. Throckmorton, being of sound
mind, and conscious of my liability to be
called”—when the lively exclamation of
“Hi! hi!” arrested his hand, and, lifting his
eyes, he saw the old black dress of Mrs.
Perrin, and Mrs. Perrin's cheerful countenance
above it.

“Oli, Sally Ann, here is the excellent
woman!” he said; “tell her how bad I am.”

“Tut! tut! tell me yourself,” replied Mrs.
Perrin. “I have rid fifty miles, to-day, to get

here, and now you want to put me off, without
speaking to me;” and, putting aside the will
and testimony, she seated herself, and taking
the sick man's hand, chafed it softly, drawing
from him meantime a full account of the bad
attack he had experienced.

She shook up the pillows and straightened
the bed, administered a little brandy and
water, set the chairs about in order, brushed
the floor, and presently had a fire kindled,
though it was not cold; and, as she worked,
she talked on and on of the pleasant visit she
had had, how young her daughter looked for
her years, and what she called all her children,
what an awful pretty country she had seen,
and how powerful weak she was after the long
ride, with a thousand other items of news and
gossip, of little interest in themselves, but all
fitted to soothe the mind and induce a sense
of cheerfulness, until, going near the bed to
feel of the sick man's pulse, she found him
fast asleep. She laid her hand first on the
wrist and then on the cheek, elevating her
eyebrows slightly as she did so, and then
softly approaching my aunt whispered that

her husband was no more like to die than she
was—that he was “nervous and fidgetty, that
was all. Them merciless doctors scared him
out of his right senses, and he never will be
himself again. We must humor him a little,
Mrs. Throckmorton;” and, surprised that she
had made no reply, she peered in her face,
and lo! she was asleep too.

Mrs. Perrin left the room on tiptoe, and
directed supper enough for a dozen hungry
men to be prepared, herself assisting in the
preparation of some delicacy for Uncle Peter.

Two long hours passed before the sleepers
awoke, and, when they did, it was to the
sound of Mrs. Perrin's “'scat.”

She had discovered the cat, no matter how,
she said, but she had discovered him, and he
was making nimble leaps before her broomstick,
when Peter and Sally Ann became
conscious.

“And mercy on us!' she said, “if there
ain't your shoes on your pillow! Why,
you have been out of your head, haven't
you?”

“Tell him, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton,

about the manifestations, and all,” said Uncle
Peter.

Mrs. Throckmorton smiled. He was better,
oh, so much better! It was an unmistakable
evidence of it that he didn't say “Sally Ann.”
So she related the proceedings of the spiritual
physician and the clairvoyant, and could not
avoid a smile, as Mrs. Perrin exclaimed, “I
never! if that don't beat everything!” and
when Aunt Sally pulled on the stockings of
her dear lord, he thought that, with an arm
through one of the arms of each of the women,
he might get down stairs, and eat a mouthful
or two of something nourishing.

As we were at supper, no one could have
suspected that Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
“was a very diseased man, with a black spot
on the left lung.”

“It beats all,” said Mrs. Perrin, “what fools
there are in the world. Now, I believe in
ghosts, and omens, and such things as that,
that have some sense in them; and a body is
sometimes foretold things, I think, in their
dreams. So, when I dream of seeing the
dead, I hear good news of the living; and a

good many dreams I think there are signs in.
Before I was ever married, I dreamed of seeing
my old man, just as plain as I see you now.
Another cup of tea, if you please, Mrs. Throckmorton.
Shan't I give you a bit of the breast
of this chicken?” and Uncle Peter, to whom
this was addressed, said, “Just a mouthful,”
not that he wanted it, but he thought it would
be nourishing; then his cup was refilled, only
to keep the excellent woman company; and
she resumed: “My grandfather was a man
who had no faith in ghosts; he never would
allow one of his children to say ghost, I have
heard my father say; and he often said if
there was any such thing to be seen he
wished he could see it. Well, he got to be
an old man, but he worked still on the farm,
as he always did, and one day, as he was
plowing in the field, he saw, all at once before
him, the most beautiful woman he had
ever set his eyes on. She smiled as he came
near, and said she was come for him. He
looked incredulous, and she added, `Go to the
house and ask Ruth (that was grandmother)
to put new strings in your shoes, and if she
does it without speaking you will know that
what I say is true.' Now, grandmother would
never so much as lift grandfather's shoes from
the floor, and he had no reason to think she
would put new strings in them without speaking,
and, still doubtful, he dropped the reins
at the feet of the strange woman, and went to
the house. Grandmother was crimping the
border of a cap, a work in which she disliked
very much to be disturbed, but grandfather
no sooner said, `Ruth, put new strings in
my shoes,' than, putting down the cap, she
obeyed, smiling as she did so. Grandfather
sunk in a chair, and said, `Ruthy, you will
wear that cap at my funeral.' He then went
to the field, and there stood the horses in
the furrow, but the woman was gone. He
loosened the traces from the plow, and that
night he was taken sick, and in three days he
died.”

“That was strange,” said Aunt Sally.

“Remarkable,” said Uncle Peter.

“Yes, and I have seen some things myself,”
added Mrs. Perrin. “Before my baby died,
there were three raps on the door one night,

and the baby started to open the door; she
could just walk then; but no one was there,
and I felt right away that she would be
taken. La, me! if it ain't twelve o'clock!”
So, laughing at one superstition, they indulged
in another.

I need hardly say that a light had to burn
for Uncle Peter that night, and that Mrs.
Perrin kept within call. But, before she
retired, she asked, aside, of Rosalie and myself,
whether we had been at Woodside during
her absence, and if there had been anybody
there from town, and if we knew whether
anybody was expected.