Mrs. Geoffrey Langford had from the first felt considerable anxiety for her sister-in-law, who, though cheerful as ever, began at length to allow that she felt worn out, and consented to spare herself more than she had hitherto done. The mischief was, however, not to be averted, and after a few days of increasing languor, she was attacked by a severe fit of the spasms, to which she had for several years been subject at intervals, and was obliged to confine herself entirely to her own room, relying with complete confidence on her sister for the attendance on her son.

It was to her, however, that Mrs. Geoffrey Langford wished most to devote herself; viewing her case with more uneasiness than that of Frederick, who was decidedly on the fair road to convalescence; and she only gave him as much time as was necessary to satisfy his mother, and to superintend the regulation of his room. He had all the society he wanted in his sister, who was always with him, and in grandpapa and grandmamma, whose short and frequent visits he began greatly to enjoy. He had also been more amenable to authority of late, partly in consequence of his uncle’s warning, partly because it was not quite so easy to torment an aunt as a mother, and partly too because, excepting always the starving system, he had nothing in particular of which to complain. His mother’s illness might also have its effect in subduing him; but it did not dwell much on his spirits, or Henrietta’s, as they were too much accustomed to her ill health to be easily alarmed on her account.

It was the last day of the holidays, and Alexander was to come late in the afternoon—Fred’s best time in the day—to take his leave. All the morning Fred was rather out of spirits, and talked to Henrietta a good deal about his school life. It might have been a melancholy day if he had been going back to school, but it was more sad to be obliged to stay away from the world where he had hitherto been measuring his powers, and finding his most exciting interests. It was very mortifying to be thus laid helplessly aside; a mere nobody, instead of an important and leading member of a community; at such an age too that it was probable that he would never return there again.

He began to describe to Henrietta all the scenes where he would be missing, but not missed; the old cathedral town, with its nest of trees, and the chalky hills; the quiet river creeping through the meadows: the “beech-crowned steep,” girdled in with the “hollow trench that the Danish pirate made;” the old collegiate courts, the painted windows of the chapel, the surpliced scholars,—even the very shops in the streets had their part in his description: and then falling into silence he sighed at the thought that there he would be known no more,—all would go on as usual, and after a few passing inquiries and expressions of compassion, he would be forgotten; his rivals would pass him in the race of distinction; his school-boy career be at an end.

His reflections were interrupted by Mrs. Langford’s entrance with Aunt Geoffrey, bringing a message of invitation from grandpapa to Henrietta, to walk with him to Sutton Leigh. She went; and Aunt Geoffrey, after putting a book within Fred’s reach, and seeing that he and grandmamma were quite willing to be companionable, again returned to his mother.

Mrs. Langford thought him low and depressed, and began talking about his health, and the present mode of treatment,—a subject on which they were perfectly agreed: one being as much inclined to bestow a good diet as the other could be to receive it. If his head was still often painfully dizzy and confused; if his eyes dazzled when he attempted to read for a long time together; if he could not stand or walk across the room without excessive giddiness—what was that but the effect of want of nourishment? “If there was a craving, that was a sure sign that the thing was wholesome.” So she said, and her grandson assented with his whole heart.

In a few minutes she left the room, and presently returned with a most tempting-looking glass of clear amber-coloured jelly.

“O, grandmamma!” said Fred, doubtfully, though his eyes positively lighted up at the sight.

“Yes, my dear, I had it made for your mamma, and she says it is very good. It is as clear as possible, and quite innocent; I am sure it must do you good.”

“Thank you! O, thank you! It does look very nice,” said Fred, gazing on it with wistful eyes, “but really I do not think I ought.”

“If it was to do you any harm, I am sure I should not think of such a thing,” said Mrs. Langford. “But I have lived a good many more years in the world than these young people, and I never saw any good come of all this keeping low. There was old Mr. Hilton, now, that attended all the neighbourhood round when I was a girl; he kept you low enough while the fever was on you, but as soon as it was gone, why then reinvigorate the system,—that was what he used to say.”

“Just like old Clarke, of Rocksand!” sighed Fred. “I know my system would like nothing better than to be re-invigorated with that splendid stuff; but you would know it would put them all in a dreadful state if they knew it.”

“Never mind,” said grandmamma; “‘tis all my doing, you know. Come, to oblige me, taste it, my dear.”

“One spoonful,” said Fred—“to oblige grandmamma,” added he to himself: and he let grandmamma lift him on the cushions as far as he could bear to have his head raised. He took the spoonful, then started a little,—“There is wine in it!” said he.

“A very little—just enough to give it a flavour; it cannot make any difference. Do you like it, my dear?” as the spoon scooped out another transparent rock. “Ay, that is right! I had the receipt from my old Aunt Kitty, and nobody ever could make it like Judith.”

“I am in for it now,” thought Fred. “Well, ‘tis excellent,” said he; “capital stuff! I feel it all down to my fingers’ ends,” added he with a smile, as he returned the glass, after fishing in vain for the particles remaining in the small end.

“That is right; I am so glad to see you enjoy it!” said grandmamma, hurrying off with the empty glass with speed at which Fred smiled, as it implied some fears of meeting Aunt Geoffrey. He knew the nature of his own case sufficiently to be aware that he had acted very imprudently,—that is to say, his better sense was aware—but his spirit of self-will made him consider all these precautions as nonsense, and was greatly confirmed by his feeling himself much more fresh and lively. Grandmamma returned to announce Alexander and Willy, who soon followed her, and after shaking hands, stood silent, much shocked at the alteration in Fred’s appearance.

This impression, however, soon passed off, as Fred began to talk over school affairs in a very animated manner; sending messages to his friends, discussing the interests of the coming half-year, the games, the studies, the employments; Alex lamenting Fred’s absence, engaging to write, undertaking numerous commissions, and even prognosticating his speedy recovery, and attainment of that cynosure,—the prize. Never had the two cousins met so cordially, or so enjoyed their meeting. There was no competition; each could afford to do the other justice, and both felt great satisfaction in doing so; and so high and even so loud became their glee, that Alex could scarcely believe that Fred was not in perfect health. At last Aunt Geoffrey came to put an end to it; and finding Fred so much excited, she made Alex bring his blunt honest farewells and good wishes to a speedy conclusion, desired Fred to lie quiet and rest, and sat down herself to see that he did so.

Fred could not easily be brought to repose; he went on talking fast and eagerly in praise of Alex, and in spite of her complete assent, he went on more and more vehemently, just as if he was defending Alex from some one who wanted to detract from his merits. She tried reading to him, but he grew too eager about the book; and at last she rather advanced the time for dressing for dinner, both for herself and Henrietta, and sent Bennet to sit with him, hoping thus perforce to reduce him to a quiescent state. He was by this means a little calmed for the rest of the evening; but so wakeful and restless a night ensued, that he began to be alarmed, and fully came to the conclusion that Philip Carey was in the right after all. Towards morning, however, a short sleep visited him, and he awoke at length quite sufficiently refreshed to be self-willed as ever; and, contrary to advice, insisted on leaving his bed at his usual hour.

Philip Carey came at about twelve o’clock, and was disappointed as well as surprised to find him so much more languid and uncomfortable, as he could not help allowing that he felt. His pulse, too, was unsatisfactory; but Philip thought the excitement of the interview with Alex well accounted for the sleepless night, as well as for the exhaustion of the present day: and Fred persuaded himself to believe so too.

Henrietta did not like to leave him to-day, but she was engaged to take a ride with grandpapa, who felt as if the little Mary of years long gone by was restored to him, when he had acquired a riding companion in his granddaughter. Mrs. Langford undertook to sit with Fred, and Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, who had been at first afraid that she would be too bustling a nurse for him just now, seeing that he was evidently impatient to be left alone with her, returned to Mrs. Frederick Langford, resolving, however, not to be long absent.

In that interval Mrs. Langford brought in the inviting glass, and Fred, in spite of his good sense, could not resist it. Perhaps the recent irritation of Philip’s last visit made him more willing to act in opposition to his orders. At any rate, he thought of little save of swallowing it before Aunt Geoffrey should catch him in the fact, in which he succeeded; so that grandmamma had time to get the tell-tale glass safely into the store-closet just as Mrs. Frederick Langford’s door was opened at the other end of the passage.

Fred’s sofa cushions were all too soft or too hard that afternoon,—too high or too low; there was a great mountain in the middle of the sofa, too, so that he could not lie on it comfortably. The room was chilly though the fire was hot, and how grandmamma did poke it! Fred thought she did nothing else the whole afternoon; and there was a certain concluding shovel that she gave to the cinders, that very nearly put him in a passion. Nothing would make him comfortable till Henrietta came in, and it seemed very long before he heard the paddock gate, and the horses’ feet upon the gravel. Then he grew very much provoked because his sister went first to her mamma’s room; and it was grandpapa who came to him full of a story of Henrietta’s good management of her horse when they suddenly met the hounds in a narrow lane. In she came, at last, in her habit, her hair hanging loosely round her face, her cheeks and eyes lighted up by the exercise, and some early primroses in her hand, begging his pardon for having kept him waiting, but saying she thought he did not want her directly, as he had grandpapa.

Nevertheless he scolded her, ordered her specimens of the promise of spring out of the room on an accusation of their possessing a strong scent, made her make a complete revolution on his sofa, and then insisted on her going on with Nicolo de Lapi, which she was translating to him from the Italian. Warm as the room felt to her in her habit, she sat down directly, without going to take it off; but he was not to be thus satisfied. He found fault with her for hesitating in her translation, and desired her to read the Italian instead; then she read first so fast that he could not follow, and then so slowly that it was quite unbearable, and she must go on translating. With the greatest patience and sweetest temper she obeyed; only when next he interrupted her to find fault, she stopped and said gently, “Dear Fred, I am afraid you are not feeling so well.”

“Nonsense! What should make you think so? You think I am cross, I suppose. Well, never mind, I will go on for myself,” said he, snatching the book.

Henrietta turned away to hide her tears, for she was too wise to vindicate herself.

“Are you crying? I am sure I said nothing to cry about; I wish you would not be so silly.”

“If you would only let me go on, dear Fred,” said she, thinking that occupying him would be better than arguing. “It is so dark where you are, and I will try to get on better. There is an easier piece coming.”

Fred agreed, and she went on without interruption for some little time, till at last he grew so excited by the story as to be very angry when the failing light obliged her to pause. She tried to extract some light from the fire, but this was a worse offence than any; it was too bad of her, when she knew how he hated both the sound of poking, and that horrible red flickering light which always hurt his eyes. This dislike, which had been one of the symptoms of the early part of his illness, so alarmed her that she had thoughts of going to call Aunt Geoffrey, and was heartily glad to see her enter the room.

“Well, how are you going on?” she said, cheerfully. “Why, my dear, how hot you must be in that habit!”

“Rather,” said poor Henrietta, whose face, between the heat and her perplexity, was almost crimson. “We have been reading ‘Nicolo,’ and I am very much afraid it is as bad as Alex’s visit, and has excited Fred again.”

“I am quite sick of hearing that word excitement!” said Fred, impatiently.

“Almost as tired as of having your pulse felt,” said Aunt Geoffrey. “But yet I must ask you to submit to that disagreeable necessity.”

Fred moved pettishly, but as he could not refuse, he only told Henrietta that he could not bear any one to look at him while his pulse was felt.

“Will you fetch me a candle, my dear?” said Aunt Geoffrey, amazed as well as terrified by the fearful rapidity of the throbs, and trying to acquire sufficient composure to count them calmly. The light came, and still she held his wrist, beginning her reckoning again and again, in the hope that it was only some momentary agitation that had so quickened them.

“What! ‘tis faster?” asked Fred, speaking in a hasty alarmed tone, when she released him at last.

“You are flushed, Fred,” she answered very quietly, though she felt full of consternation. “Yes, faster than it ought to be; I think you had better not sit up any longer this evening, or you will sleep no better than last night.”

“Very well,” said Fred.

“Then I will ring for Stephens,” said she.

The first thing she did on leaving his room was to go to her own, and there write a note to young Mr. Carey, giving an account of the symptoms that had caused her so much alarm. As she wrote them down without exaggeration, and trying to give each its just weight, going back to recollect the first unfavourable sign, she suddenly remembered that as she left her sister’s room, she had seen Mrs. Langford, whom she had left with Fred, at the door of the store-closet. Could she have been giving him any of her favourite nourishing things? Mrs. Geoffrey Langford could hardly believe that either party could have acted so foolishly, yet when she remembered a few words that had passed about the jelly that morning at breakfast, she could no longer doubt, and bitterly reproached herself for not having kept up a stricter surveillance. Of her suspicion she however said nothing, but sealing her note, she went down to the drawing-room, told Mr. Langford that she did not think Fred quite so well that evening, and asked him if he did not think it might be better to let Philip Carey know. He agreed instantly, and rang the bell to order a servant to ride to Allonfield; but Mrs. Langford, who could not bear any one but Geoffrey to act without consulting her, pitied man and horse for being out so late, and opined that Beatrice forgot that she was not in London, where the medical man could be called in so easily.

It was fortunate that it was the elder Beatrice instead of the younger, for provoked as she already had been before with the old lady, it was not easy even for her to make a cheerful answer. “Well, it is very kind in you to attend to my London fancies,” said she; “I think if we can do anything to spare him such a night as the last, it should be tried.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Mr. Langford. “It is very disappointing when he was going on so well. He must surely have been doing something imprudent.”

It was very tempting to interrogate Mrs. Langford, but her daughter-in-law had long since come to a resolution never to convey to her anything like reproach, let her do what she might in her mistaken kindness of heart, or her respectable prejudices; so, without entering on what many in her place might have made a scene of polite recrimination, she left the room, and on her way up, heard Frederick’s door gently opened. Stephens came quickly and softly to the end of the passage to meet her. “He is asking for you, ma’am,” said he; “I am afraid he is not so well; I did not like to ring, for fear of alarming my mistress, but—”

Mrs. Geoffrey Langford entered the room, and found that the bustle and exertion of being carried to his bed had brought on excessive confusion and violent pain. He put his hand to his forehead, opened his eyes, and looked wildly about. “Oh, Aunt Geoffrey,” he exclaimed, “what shall I do? It is as bad—worse than ever!”

“You have been doing something imprudent, I fear,” said Aunt Geoffrey, determined to come to the truth at once.

“Only that glass of jelly—if I had guessed!”

“Only one?”

“One to-day, one yesterday. It was grandmamma’s doing. Don’t let her know that I told. I wish mamma was here!”

Aunt Geoffrey tried to relieve the pain by cold applications, but could not succeed, and Fred grew more and more alarmed.

“The inflammation is coming back!” he cried, in an agony of apprehension that almost overcame the sense of pain. “I shall be in danger—I shall lose my senses—I shall die! Mamma! O! where is mamma?”

“Lie still, my dear Fred,” said Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, laying her hand on him so as to restrain his struggling movements to turn round or to sit up. “Resistance and agitation will hurt you more than anything else. You must control yourself, and trust to me, and you may be sure I will do the best in my power for you. The rest is in the hands of God.”

“Then you think me very ill?” said Fred, trying to speak more composedly.

“I think you will certainly make yourself very ill, unless you will keep yourself quiet, both mind and body. There—” she settled him as comfortably as she could: “Now I am going away for a few minutes. Make a resolution not to stir till I come back. Stephens is here, and I shall soon come back.”

This was very unlike the way in which his mother used to beseech him as a favour to spare her, and yet his aunt’s tone was so affectionate, as well as so authoritative, that he could not feel it unkind. She left the room, and as soon as she found herself alone in the passage, leant against the wall and trembled, for she felt herself for a moment quite overwhelmed, and longed earnestly for her husband to think for her, or even for one short interval in which to reflect. For this, however, there was no time, and with one earnest mental supplication, summoning up her energies, she walked on to the person whom she at that moment most dreaded to see, her sister-in-law. She found her sitting in her arm-chair, Henrietta with her, both looking very anxious, and she was glad to find her prepared.

“What is it?” was the first eager question.

“He has been attempting rather too much of late,” was the answer, “and has knocked himself up. I came to tell you, because I think I had better stay with him, and perhaps you might miss me.”

“O no, no, pray go to him. Nothing satisfies me so well about him as that you should be there, except that I cannot bear to give you so much trouble. Don’t stay here answering questions. He will be so restless if he misses you—”

“Don’t you sit imagining, Mary; let Henrietta read to you.”

This proposal made Henrietta look so piteous and wistful that her mother said, “No, no, let her go to Freddy, poor child. I dare say he wants her.”

“By no means,” said Aunt Geoffrey, opening the door; “he will be quieter without her.”

Henrietta was annoyed, and walked about the room, instead of sitting down to read. She was too fond of her own will to like being thus checked, and she thought she had quite as good a right to be with her brother as her aunt could have. Every temper has one side or other on which it is susceptible; and this was hers. She thought it affection for her brother, whereas it was impatience of being ordered.

Her mother forced herself to speak cheerfully. “Aunt Geoffrey is a capital nurse,” said she; “there is something so decided about her that it always does one good. It saves all the trouble and perplexity of thinking for oneself.”

“I had rather judge for myself,” said Henrietta.

“That is all very well to talk of,” said her mother, smiling sadly, “but it is a very different thing when you are obliged to do it.”

“Well, what do you like to hear?” said Henrietta, who found herself too cross for conversation. “The old man’s home?”

“Do not read unless you like it, my dear; I think you must be tired. You would want ‘lungs of brass’ to go on all day to both of us. You had better not. I should like to talk.”

Henrietta being in a wilful fit, chose nevertheless to read, because it gave her the satisfaction of feeling that Aunt Geoffrey was inflicting a hardship upon her; although her mother would have preferred conversation. So she took up a book, and began, without any perception of the sense of what she was reading, but her thoughts dwelling partly on her brother, and partly on her aunt’s provoking ways. She read on through a whole chapter, then closing the book hastily, exclaimed, “I must go and see what Aunt Geoffrey is doing with Fred.”

“She is not such a very dangerous person,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, almost laughing at the form of the expression.

“Well, but you surely want to know how he is, mamma?”

“To be sure I do, but I am so afraid of his being disturbed. If he was just going to sleep now.”

“Yes, but you know how softly I can open the door.”

“Your aunt would let us know if there was anything to hear. Pray take care, my dear.”

“I must go, I can’t bear it any longer; I will only just listen,” said Henrietta; “I will not be a moment.”

“Let me have the book, my dear,” said her mother, who knew but too well the length of Henrietta’s moments, and who had just, by means of a great effort, succeeded in making herself take interest in the book.

Henrietta gave it to her, and darted off. The door of Fred’s room was ajar, and she entered. Aunt Geoffrey, Bennet, and Judith were standing round the bed, her aunt sponging away the blood that was flowing from Frederick’s temples. His eyes were closed, and he now and then gave long gasping sighs of oppression and faintness. “Leeches!” thought Henrietta, as she started with consternation and displeasure. “This is pretty strong! Without telling me or mamma! Well, this is what I call doing something with him indeed.”

She advanced to the table, but no one saw her for more than a minute, till at last Aunt Geoffrey stepped quickly up to it in search of some bottle.

“Let me do something,” said Henrietta, catching up the bottle that she thought likely to be the right one.

Her aunt looked vexed, and answered in a low quick tone, “You had better stay with your mamma.”

“But why are you doing this? Is he worse? Is Mr. Philip Carey here? Has he ordered it?”

“He is not come yet. My dear, I cannot talk to you: I should be much obliged if you would go back to your mamma.”

Aunt Geoffrey went back to Fred, but a few minutes after she looked up and still saw Henrietta standing by the table. She came up to her, “Henrietta, you are of no use here; every additional person oppresses him; your mamma must be kept tranquil. Why will you stay?”

“I was just going,” said Henrietta, taking this hurrying as an additional offence, and walking off in a dignified way.

It was hard to say what had affronted her most, the proceeding itself, the neglect, or the commands which Aunt Geoffrey had presumed to lay upon her, and away she went to her mamma, a great deal too much displeased, and too distrustful to pay the smallest attention to any precautions which her aunt might have tried to impress upon her.

“Well!” asked her mother anxiously.

“She would not let me stay,” answered Henrietta. “She has been putting on leeches.”

“Leeches!” exclaimed her mother. “He must be much worse. Poor fellow! Is Mr. Carey here?”

“No, that is the odd thing.”

“Has he not been sent for?”

“I am sure I don’t know. Aunt Geoffrey seems to like to do things in her own way.”

“It must be very bad indeed if she cannot venture to wait for him!” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, much alarmed.

“And never to tell you!” said Henrietta.

“O, that was her consideration. She knew how foolishly anxious I should be. I have no doubt that she is doing right. How did he seem to be?”

“Very faint, I thought,” said Henrietta, “there seemed to be a great deal of bleeding, but Aunt Geoffrey would not let me come near.”

“She knows exactly what to do,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford. “How well it was that she should be here.”

Henrietta began to be so fretted at her mother’s complete confidence in her aunt, that without thinking of the consequences she tried to argue it away. “Aunt Geoffrey is so quick—she does things without half the consideration other people do. And she likes to settle everything.”

But happily the confiding friendship of a lifetime was too strong to be even harassed for a moment by the petulant suspicions of an angry girl.

“My dear, if you were not vexed and anxious, I should tell you that you were speaking very improperly of your aunt. I am perfectly satisfied that she is doing what is right by dear Fred, as well as by me; and if I am satisfied, no one else has any right to object.”

There was nothing left for Henrietta in her present state of spirits but to have a hearty cry, one of the best possible ways she could find of distressing her mother, who all the time was suffering infinitely more than she could imagine from her fears, her efforts to silence them, and the restraint which she was exercising upon herself, longing as she did to fly to her son’s room, to see with her own eyes, and only detained by the fear that her sudden appearance there might agitate him. The tears, whatever might be their effect upon her, did Henrietta good, and restored her to something more like her proper senses. She grew rather alarmed, too, when she saw her mamma’s pale looks, as she leant back almost exhausted with anxiety and repressed agitation.

Mrs. Langford came up to bring them some tea, and she, having little idea of the real state of things, took so encouraging a view as to cheer them both, and her visit did much service at least to Henrietta. Then they heard sounds announcing Philip Carey’s arrival, and presently after in came Bennet with a message from Mr. Frederick that he was better, and that his mother was not to be frightened. At last came Aunt Geoffrey, saying, “Well, Mary, he is better. I have been very sorry to leave you so long, and I believe Henrietta,” looking at her with a smile, “thinks I have used you very ill.”

“I believe she did,” said her mother, “but I was sure you would do right; you say he is better? Let me hear.”

“Much better; only—. But Mary, you look quite worn out, you should go to bed.”

“Let me hear about him first.”

Aunt Geoffrey accordingly told the whole history, as, perhaps, every one would not have told it, for one portion of it in some degree justified Henrietta’s opinion that she had been doing a great deal on her own responsibility. It had been very difficult to stop the bleeding, and Fred, already very weak, had been so faint and exhausted that she had felt considerable alarm, and was much rejoiced by the arrival of Philip Carey, who had not been at home when the messenger reached his house. Now, however, all was well; he had fully approved all that she had done, and, although she did not repeat this to Mrs. Frederick Langford, had pronounced that her promptitude and energy had probably saved the patient’s life. Fred, greatly relieved, had fallen asleep, and she had now come, with almost an equal sense of relief, to tell his mother all that had passed, and ask her pardon.

“Nay, Beatrice, what do you mean by that? Is it not what you and Geoffrey have always done to treat him as your own son instead of mine? and is it not almost my chief happiness to feel assured that you always will do so? You know that is the reason I never thank you.”

Henrietta hung her head, and felt that she had been very unjust and ungrateful, more especially when her aunt said, “You thought it very hard to have your mouth stopped, Henrietta, my dear, and I was sorry for it, but I had not much time to be polite.”

“I am sorry I was in the way,” said she, an acknowledgment such as she had seldom made.

Fred awoke the next morning much better, though greatly fallen back in his progress towards recovery, but his mother had during the night the worst fit of spasms from which she had ever suffered.

But Henrietta thought it all so well accounted for by all the agitations of the evening before, that there was no reason for further anxiety.

It was a comfort to Aunt Geoffrey, who took it rather more seriously, that she received that morning a letter from her husband, concluding,

“As to the Queen Bee, I have no doubt that you can judge of her frame better from the tone of her letters than from anything I have to tell. I think her essentially improved and improving, and you will think I do not speak without warrant, when I tell you that Lady Susan expressed herself quite warmly respecting her this morning. She continues to imagine that she has the charge of Queen Bee, and not Queen Bee of her, and I think it much that she has been allowed to continue in the belief. Lady Amelia comes to-morrow, and then I hope the poor little woman’s penance may be over, for though she makes no complaints, there is no doubt that it is a heavy one, as her thorough enjoyment of a book, and an hour’s freedom from that little gossiping flow of plaintive talk sufficiently testify.”