t
sick with shame and sorrow, at the sight, not heeding one syllable
of the excuses and apologies poured in upon her, nor of the equally
valueless assurances that it could be easily mended; that Martha was a
perfect proficient in such arts; and that, if Scroope would only collect
the pieces carefully, the most difficult connoisseur would not be able
to detect a flaw in it.

"I've got a head here; but the no-nose is off," cried Purvis.

"Here it is, Scroope. I 've found it."

"No, that's a toe," said he; "there 's a nail to it."

"I am getting ill I shall faint," said Mrs. Ricketts, retiring upon a
well-cushioned sofa from the calamity.

Martha now flew to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, while Purvis
threw open the window, and with such rash haste as to upset a stand of
camellias, thereby scattering plants, buds, earth, and crockery over the
floor, while poor Kate, thunderstruck at the avalanche of ruin around
her, leaned against the wall for support, unable to stir or even speak.
As Martha continued to tug away at the bell, the alarm, suggesting the
idea of fire, brought three or four servants to the door together.

"Madeira! quick, Madeira!" cried Martha, as she unloosed various
articles of dress from her sister's throat, and prepared a plan of
operations for resuscitation that showed at least an experienced hand.

"Bring wine," said Kate, faintly, to the astonished butler, who, not
noticing Miss Ricketts's order, seemed to await hers.

"Madeira! it must be Madeira!" cried Martha, wildly.

"She don't dislike Mar-Mar-Marco-brunner," whispered Purvis to the
servant, "and I'll take a glass too."

Had the irruption been one of veritable housebreakers, had the occasion
been what newspapers stereotype as a "Daring Burglary," Kate Dalton
might, in all likelihood, have distinguished herself as a heroine. She
would, it is more than probable, have evinced no deficiency either of
courage or presence of mind, but in the actual contingency nothing could
be more utterly helpless than she proved; and, as she glided into a
chair, her pale face and trembling features betrayed more decisive signs
of suffering than the massive countenance which Martha was now deluging
with eau-de-Cologne and lavender.

The wine soon made its appearance; a very imposing array of restoratives
the ambulatory pharmacopeia of the Ricketts family was all displayed
upon a table. Martha, divested of shawl, bonnet, and gloves, stood ready
for