fle premature, for the hysterical girl--who was, it
seemed, a person of considerable determination, despite her feeble
appearance--replied from the footstool,--

"No, it isn't. No they haven't!"

Mrs. Harriet developed a purple shade.

"Nonsense!" she said. "You're cured, love, entirely cured!"

"I'm not," said the girl, beginning to cry. "I feel much worse since you
pressed my head."

There was a burst of remonstrance from the crowd, and Mrs. Harriet,
speaking with the air of an angry martyr, remarked,--

"It's just like the drinking--she fancies she isn't cured when she is,
just the same as she fancied she was drinking when she wasn't."

This unanswerable logic naturally carried conviction to everyone
present, and the hysterical girl was warmly advised to make due
acknowledgement of the benefits received by her at the healing hands
of Mrs. Harriet, while the latter was covered with compliments and
assiduously conducted towards the buffet, escorted by the great Towle.

"Isn't she wonderful?" said Mrs. Bridgeman, turning ecstatically to
the person nearest to her, who happened to be the saturnine little
clergyman. "Isn't she marvellous, Mr.--er--Mr. Segerteribus?"

"Biggle!" cried the little clergyman.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Biggle!" vociferated the little clergyman. "Biggle!"

"Certainly. Did you ever see anything like that cure? Ah! you ought to
preach about dear Harriet, Mr. Segerteribus, you really--"

"Biggle!" reiterated the little clergyman, excitedly. "Biggle! Biggle!"

"What does he--" began Mrs. Bridgeman, turning helplessly towards the
Prophet.

"It's his name, I fancy," whispered the Prophet.

Mrs. Bridgeman started and smiled.

"Mr. Biggle," she said.

The little clergyman moved on towards the guitars with all the air of
a future colonial bishop. Mrs. Bridgeman, who seemed to be somewhat
confused, and whose manner grew increasingly vague as the evening wore
on, now said to those nearest to her,--

"There are fifteen tables set out--yes, set out,--in the green boudoir."

"Bedad!" remarked an Irish colonel, "then it's meself'll enjoy a good
rubber."

"For table-turning," added Mrs. Bridgeman. "Materialisation in the
same room after supper. Mr. Towle--yes--will enter the cabinet at about
eleven. Where's Madame Charlotte?"

"Looking into the crystal for Lady Ferrier," said someone.

"Oh, and the professor?"

"He's reading Archdeacon Andrew's nose, by the cloak-room."

Mrs. Bridge