bid. Margaret returned with
her apron full of a flowering herb. She made a decoction, and took it
to the bedside; and before giving it to the patient, took a spoonful
herself, and smacked her lips hypocritically. "That is fair," said he,
with a feeble attempt at humour. "Why, 'tis sweet, and now 'tis bitter."
She engaged him in conversation as soon as he had taken it. This
bitter-sweet stayed by him. Seeing which she built on it as cards are
built: mixed a very little schiedam in the third spoonful, and a little
beaten yoke of egg in the seventh. And so with the patience of her sex
she coaxed his body out of Death's grasp; and finally, Nature, being
patted on the back, instead of kicked under the bed, set Jorian Ketel
on his legs again. But the doctress made them both swear never to tell a
soul her guilty deed. "They would put me in prison, away from my child."

The simple that saved Jorian was called sweet feverfew. She gathered it
in his own garden. Her eagle eye had seen it growing out of the window.

Margaret and Joan, then, reached the hermit's cave, and placed their
present on the little platform. Margaret then applied her mouth to the
aperture, made for that purpose, and said: "Holy hermit, we bring thee
butter and eggs of the best; and I, a poor deserted girl, wife, yet no
wife, and mother of the sweetest babe, come to pray thee tell me whether
he is quick or dead, true to his vows or false."

A faint voice issued from the cave: "Trouble me not with the things of
earth, but send me a holy friar, I am dying."

"Alas!" cried Margaret. "Is it e'en so, poor soul? Then let us in to
help thee."

"Saints forbid! Thine is a woman's voice. Send me a holy friar."

They went back as they came. Joan could not help saying, "Are women imps
o' darkness then, that they must not come anigh a dying bed?"

But Margaret was too deeply dejected to say anything. Joan applied rough
consolation. But she was not listened to till she said: "And Jorian will
speak out ere long; he is just on the boil, He is very grateful to thee,
believe it."

"Seeing is believing," replied Margaret, with quiet bitterness.

"Not but what he thinks you might have saved him with something more out
o' the common than yon. 'A man of my inches to be cured wi' feverfew,'
says he. 'Why, if there is a sorry herb,' says he. 'Why, I was thinking
o' pulling all mine up, says he. I up and told him remedies were none
the better for being far-fetched; you and f