MARION'S MIDNIGHT WALK.
It was a clear, cold day, in the latter part of February; the ground had
been covered with snow ever since Christmas week, and seemed likely to
be so for some time yet; even quite a heavy rain had failed to melt away
King Winter's snowy mantle, for being followed by a freezing night it
had only served to crust everything with a thin coating of ice, and set
upon the old fellow's head a crown, which glittered and sparkled in the
sunlight rivalling in beauty that of many a lesser monarch.
A sleigh was standing at the gate of the school, and Martin, the
Irishman who sawed the wood, built the fires, and did all the little odd
jobs generally of the establishment, stood with the reins in his hands;
evidently very much pleased with his new position as coachman.
Miss Stiefbach was going away, fifteen miles into the country, to see a
friend who was very ill, and had sent her a very pressing letter, asking
her to come to her as soon as possible; and the most feasible way for
her to get there and back seemed to be, to hire a horse and sleigh in
the village, take Martin as driver, and return the next day.
Nothing but the very urgent request of a sick friend would have called
Miss Stiefbach away from school just at this time; for the cook was sick
abed with a terribly sore throat; the laundress could hardly speak, on
account of a bad cold, and Bridget, the housemaid, was almost worn out
with doing a part of everybody's work, for the last three days. But
Miss Christine begged her sister to go; she would get the older girls to
help her with the extra work, and as it was only for one night, there
certainly seemed no danger but what they could get along without her; so
at two o'clock Miss Stiefbach started. Marion, Julia, and Sarah offered
their services to wash the dinner-dishes, and with sleeves rolled up,
and long aprons on, went into the business in earnest, laughing and
chattering like magpies. While they were at work Rachel Drayton came
into the room for a glass of water, and Sarah Brown, looking up,
exclaimed:--
"Why, Rachel, what in the world is the matter with you? You look like a
ghost!"
"Only one of my headaches," said Rachel, making a feeble attempt to
smile. "I've had it all day."
"But you are hoarse; you can hardly speak," said Julia.
"Don't say anything about it; but my throat is terribly sore. Please
don't tell Miss Christine; there are enough sick in the house already
without me."
"But you ought to do something for it, indeed you ought," said Sarah. "I
wish I could tell you of something; don't you know of anything for a
sore throat, Marion?"
"I always gargle mine with salt and water," answered Marion
indifferently, without looking up from the buffet-drawer, where she was
arranging the silver.
"Well, do try it, Rachel," said Julia; "it can't hurt you certainly;
here's some salt. How much do you put in a tumbler of water, Marion?"
"I really don't know," replied Marion, still busy with the silver; "I
never measured it."
"Well, can't you give me any idea?" asked Julia, rather impatiently.
"Don't trouble Miss Berkley," said Rachel, in a voice which she tried
in vain to render steady, for, sick and suffering as she was, Marion's
indifference cut her to the heart. She turned away to leave the room,
the blinding tears rushed to her eyes, her head swam, and she staggered
forward, as Sarah cried: "Quick, Julia! catch her; she's fainting!"
Marion started up in time to see Rachel, with a deathly white face and
closed eyes, stretch out her hands helplessly before her, as Julia and
Sarah caught her in their arms, and saved her from falling.
The sight of that white face struck Marion with horror; but still she
did not move from the spot where she had stood ever since Rachel entered
the room; it seemed as if she _could_ not move, until Sarah exclaimed:--
"Marion, hand me a glass of water, for Heaven's sake; she'll faint
away."
"No, I shan't," said Rachel, in a feeble voice, trying to raise her
head; "it was only a sudden dizziness. I often have it when my head
aches, only to-day it was worse than usual."
"Lie still there," said Julia, as they led her to the sofa, "and keep
perfectly quiet; I'll go call Miss Christine."
"No! no!" cried Rachel, jumping up, but sinking back again as the sudden
movement sent her head whizzing round; "please don't; she has gone up to
give cook her medicine, and indeed I shall be better soon."
"I won't call her, if you'll promise to go to bed as soon as you are
able to walk."
"Well, I will," answered Rachel. "I can go in a few minutes; would you
mind asking Florence to come here?"
Sarah ran off to get Florence, and Julia sat down by Rachel, bathing her
head with cold water. Marion went on quietly putting away the dishes;
only now and then glancing at the white face in such fearful contrast
with its surroundings of black hair and dress.
Florence came in, and, as soon as Rachel was able, helped her up to her
room, where she laid down on the bed without undressing, hoping to feel
well enough to go down to tea; but that was out of the question; her
head grew worse instead of better, and at last Florence insisted upon
calling Miss Christine.
When Miss Christine came up, she told Marion to take Rachel into Miss
Stiefbach's room, and help her to undress at once, while she went to get
some hot water in which to bathe her feet. Very soon Rachel was in bed,
and begged Miss Christine to "go away and not mind her, for she knew she
should feel all right in the morning."
But of this Miss Christine did not feel at all sure; the deadly pallor
of Rachel's face had been succeeded by a bright red spot in each cheek,
and the palms of her hands were burning hot. Leaving Florence to sit
with her friend, she went down to attend to her other duties. She went
into the dining-room to set the tea-table; but Marion and Sarah were
there before her.
"How is Rachel?" asked Sarah; "do you think she is going to be ill?"
"I hope not; indeed I think not, for you know she often has these
dreadful headaches; still she has a bad sore throat, and seems feverish.
I almost wish Miss Stiefbach had not gone."
"It was too bad," said Sarah; "just now when everybody is sick! I don't
see why that lady had to send for her!"
"Well, my dear, she could not possibly know that it was not convenient
for us to have Miss Stiefbach away, and she wanted to see her about
something very important; it could not be helped. I dare say everything
will come out right in the end. I must go now and help Bridget, or she
will get discouraged. O Marion," she said, as she was about to leave the
room, "will you please sleep with Rose? She'll be afraid to sleep alone,
and I have put Rachel into Miss Stiefbach's room, where I can be near
her if she should want anything in the night."
"Oh, I don't want to," replied Marion, much to Miss Christine's
surprise. "Rose kicks awfully. Ask Florence."
"Will she be any less likely to kick Florence than you?" asked Miss
Christine, quietly.
"No, I suppose not; but you know Florence won't mind, as long as it's
for Rachel."
"And you would, I am sorry to say."
"I suppose it's no use for me to offer," said Sarah, "for that would
leave Jennie all alone, and she's an awful coward."
"No, I thank you," said Miss Christine, as she left the room; "I will
ask Florence."
Marion said nothing; she went on setting the table and talking to Sarah,
never in any way alluding to Rachel, and doing her best not to think of
her, or reproach herself for having treated her so unkindly; but no
matter what she did, she could not stifle the voice of conscience, and
its whisperings were far from pleasant to hear.
That night, as she went up to bed, her better nature prompted her to
step into Rachel's room, and ask her if she felt any better; but "No,"
she said to herself, "she will think it's all hypocrisy, and I won't do
it."
She hurried and undressed herself as quickly as possible, so that she
was already in bed when Florence came in to get her night-clothes to
carry into Rose's room; but she did not speak or open her eyes. Florence
moved round as quietly as possible, getting her things together, and
then stepping to the bedside stooped down and kissed her friend; but
Marion did not speak or move; so Florence, thinking she was asleep,
turned out the gas, and left the room. When she was gone Marion buried
her head in the pillow, and wept bitter, bitter tears.
It was a long time before she went to sleep, and then her rest was
disturbed by frightful dreams; she thought the house was on fire; that
she was safe, but Rachel and Florence were in the attic, where no one
could reach them, and they must burn to death while she stood looking
on.
She awoke with a start, to see a bright light in the entry; springing
out of bed, she ran to the door just as Miss Christine, with a candle in
her hand, and a wrapper over her night-dress was passing by.
"O Miss Christine," she cried, in an excited whisper, "is the house on
fire?"
"No, indeed, dear, nothing of the sort; but Rachel is very ill, and I am
going down to make her some lemonade. Won't you please put something on,
and go in and sit with her? I cannot bear to leave her alone."
Marion did not stop to answer; but running back into her room, threw a
shawl over her shoulders, and hastily thrusting her feet into her
slippers, hurried into Miss Stiefbach's room. There was only a dim light
in the chamber. Marion went up to the bed, and, leaning over, called
Rachel by name; but she made no answer, only moaned feebly, and tossed
her arms over her head, rolling her great black eyes from side to side.
"Rachel," said Marion, thoroughly frightened, "don't you know me?"
The voice seemed to rouse her, for she started up, and looked fixedly at
Marion; then putting her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some
horrible sight, she cried, in a hoarse voice, "Go away! go away! you
hate me! you hate me! you're going to kill me!"
Marion shuddered, for she knew Rachel must be delirious; she tried to
soothe her, but the sound of her voice only seemed to make her more
excited. She seemed to have a vague idea who she was, and that she was
there to do her harm. Once she sat up in bed, and, laying her hand on
Marion's arm, said in the most grieved, beseeching tone, "What makes you
hate me so? I never did you any harm."
Marion, with tears in her eyes was about to speak, when suddenly the
tender, supplicating expression left Rachel's face, and one of intense
horror and grief took its place, as she grasped Marion's arm tightly
with one hand, stretching out her other arm, and pointing into a dark
corner of the room, exclaiming, in a voice that made her companion
shudder from head to foot: "See! see! you see they're taking it off!
they're taking it off! don't you see? It's my father! O father! father!"
she wailed, stretching out her arm as if entreating some person seen
only by herself, "don't leave me; for there'll be no one to love me
then. I'm all alone! all alone! all alone!"
Marion's tears fell thick and fast, as the exhausted girl threw herself
back on the pillow and sobbed aloud; every unkind thought, every cold
glance, and every act of neglect which she had shown the poor, desolate
creature beside her pictured itself before her. Remorse was doing its
work, and her greatest fear was that Rachel would die while yet
delirious, and before she had an opportunity to ask her forgiveness, and
atone by her kindness in the future for her neglect of the past. But
although these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, they were but
as the undercurrent of her immediate anxiety; it seemed as if Miss
Christine would never come, and Rachel still moaned and sobbed in a
heart-rending manner.
When Miss Christine did at last enter the room, bringing the lemonade,
Marion hurried towards her, and whispered:--
"Oh, do you think she's going to die? Can't we do anything for her?
Can't _I_ do anything?"
"I think she seems very ill indeed," replied Miss Christine, going to
the bedside, and laying a cloth wet in cold water on Rachel's head; then
coming back to Marion, "Will you stay with her while I go for the
doctor?"
"Can't you send Bridget?"
"No, the poor thing is half worn out with all she has had to do this
week. I would not call her up for anything. If you will stay with
Rachel, and keep changing the cloth on her head, I will go, for I dare
not wait until morning."
"O Miss Christine!" exclaimed Marion, in a trembling whisper, "I can't
stay; indeed I can't, and hear her rave about her father; it is
dreadful! it goes right through me; you stay and _I'll_ go."
"Marion, do you know it is almost midnight? You will be afraid."
"You were not."
"No, because I'm not nervous."
"Well, I won't be nervous; if there's no danger for you, there is none
for me. I shall go."
"Any _real_ danger I do not think there is, but of imaginary danger a
plenty, and if you should get seriously frightened I never should
forgive myself."
"But I won't be frightened or nervous," said Marion, resolutely. "Here,
feel my hand; when Rachel was raving a moment ago, I _could_ not keep it
still; now it is as steady as yours. O Miss Christine, if you only
_knew_, you would let me go."
"My dear child," said Miss Christine, laying her hand tenderly on
Marion's cheek, "I _do_ know, and if you really are courageous enough,
you may go. It is no use for me to wake up any of the girls; there is
not one of them that would dare go with you, I know."
"I'll go alone, Miss Christine, and I know nothing will happen to me."
Marion hurried back into her room, and dressed herself as quickly as
possible, putting on her thickest cloak, furs, and a warm hood. Miss
Christine stepped into the entry, and kissed her good-by, saying:--
"Don't be afraid, darling; you know nothing ever happens round here, and
if you bring the doctor back with you it may be the means of saving
Rachel's life."
Marion made no reply, except by a glance full of meaning, and went
quietly downstairs, looking back as she reached the door, and nodding at
Miss Christine, who stood at the head of the stairs, holding a candle;
then she opened the door, and went out into the night alone.
There were two roads which led to the village. By the road proper, on
which several residences bordered, the distance was about two miles; but
there was a shorter one, called the bridge road, which led through
several open fields, and crossed the B---- River, which was rarely
frequented except by the school-girls and farmers on their way to and
from market. This road kept a perfectly straight course to the village,
and although far more lonely than the other, on that account Marion
chose it.
It was a perfect night; clear and cold, very cold; but of that Marion
thought nothing; she had braved New England winters all her life, and
was almost as hardy as a backwoodsman. The moon was full, and shone down
on as lovely a scene as one would wish to see; the trees with their
delicate coating of ice glistened and gleamed in its beams, as though
covered with myriads of jewels, and threw their fantastic shadows on the
shining snow.
Marion hurried along the road, not giving herself time for fear, until
she had left the school-house some distance behind her. At any other
time she would have been wildly enthusiastic over the beauty of the
night; but looking at the moon from a comfortable sleigh, snugly tucked
up in buffalo robes, the stillness of the night broken by the jolly
jingling of bells and the laughter of merry friends, is a very different
thing from contemplating it on a lonely country road, no house in sight,
with your loudly beating heart for your only companion, and the hour
near midnight.
At least Marion found it so; and, brave as she was, she could not keep
her heart from thumping against her side, or her hands from trembling
nervously, as she clasped them inside of her muff. Every bush she passed
took some fantastic shape, and as she strained her eyes before her to
make it assume some rational form, it seemed to move stealthily as if
about to spring upon her; the trees appeared to be stretching out their
naked branches, like long arms with ghostly fingers to clutch her as she
passed; now and then a twig, too heavily freighted with ice, would snap
off and come crackling to the ground, the sudden noise making her heart
stand still for an instant, only to start on again, beating more
violently than before.
But still she pressed on, and soon the river, which was on the very
verge of the town, gleamed before her, and she quickened her pace,
thankful that so much of her journey was past; but who can describe the
horror and dismay she felt, when, upon reaching its banks, she found the
bridge was gone! The little river wound in and out for several miles,
doubling and redoubling itself, as it flowed among the woods and
fields, and was as quiet and placid a little river as ever could be,
with the exception of a number of rods above and below the bridge; here
its bed was filled with a quantity of rocks and stones, and the water,
rushing over and between them, formed innumerable cascades and
whirlpools, never freezing in the coldest weather. For some time the
bridge had been considered rather unsafe, and that afternoon the workmen
had taken away the floor, leaving the stays and beams still standing.
Marion looked at the skeleton frame in utter despair. There lay the town
directly before her, the doctor's house being one of the first, and the
only means of getting to it were gone. To go up the bank of the river
and cross on the ice seemed out of the question, for there it was
bordered by thick woods, in which she could easily lose her way, and to
go back, and round by the regular road would take at least an hour
longer. Meanwhile Rachel might be dying, for aught she knew. She went
nearer the bridge, and inspected it more closely; the railings were
perfectly secure, and built upon two broad, solid beams which spanned
the river; the idea came into her head to cross the river on one of the
beams, holding firmly to the railing with both hands. She tied her muff
by the tassels round her neck, tightened the strings of her hood, and
stepped cautiously on to the beam. It seemed a fearful undertaking; her
heart almost misgave her; but the delirious cries of Rachel rang in her
ears and spurred her on. Step by step, slowly and carefully, as a little
child feels its way along a fence, she crept along; gaining confidence
with every movement, until she reached the middle of the bridge; then
she happened to look down. The black water seethed and foamed beneath
her, touched into brightness here and there by the moonlight. For an
instant her brain whirled, and she almost lost her balance. She shut her
eyes, and with a tremendous effort of her will was herself again.
Looking up to heaven, and inwardly beseeching God to sustain her, she
kept on, slowly and carefully as ever, moving first one foot then the
other, with both hands still firmly clasping the railing, until at last
the opposite side was reached, and she stepped upon the snow.
Her first impulse was to throw herself upon the nearest rock, for now
that she had fairly crossed in safety, the extreme tension to which her
nerves had been subjected relaxed itself, and she was more inclined to
be alarmed at the loneliness of her situation than before. When on the
bridge all her thoughts had been concentrated upon getting over safely;
by force of will she had conquered her nervous fear, calling up all
sorts of imaginary dangers, which disappeared before the actual danger
which assailed her, and which, by presence of mind, she had been able to
overcome. But she would not indulge any of her wild fancies, though they
crowded themselves upon her against her will. She felt herself growing
weaker and weaker as she approached the end of her walk. The shadows
made by the trees and houses seemed even more gloomy than those of the
open road. Once a dog, chained in the neighborhood, broke the stillness
of the night by a long, mournful howl, which echoed through the air,
making Marion shudder as she heard it. At last the house was reached;
running up the steps she gave the bell a tremendous pull. She could hear
it ring through the house; then all was still again. She waited, what
seemed to her, standing there alone on the door-step, which did not even
offer the friendly shadow of a porch, a very long time; then rang again,
even more violently than before. In a moment she heard a window opened
above, and looking up beheld a night-capped head, and the doctor's voice
asked, "What's the row down there? Seems to me you're in a terrible
hurry."
"Some one's sick, do let me in quick, Dr. Brown!--it's Marion Berkley."
"Marion Berkley!" exclaimed the doctor, in astonishment. "Here, catch
this key; it's got a long string tied to it, and let yourself in; I'll
be down directly."
Marion caught the key, and in a moment unlocked the door; once inside,
her strength forsook her, and she sank on the door-mat in total
darkness, perfectly thankful to be in a place of safety. Pretty soon she
heard a movement above, a light gleamed down the stairway, and she heard
the doctor's voice calling to some one in the back of the house to have
the horse harnessed, and brought round to the door immediately.
In a few moments the doctor himself appeared, bearing a light in his
hand, and exclaiming, as he made his way downstairs, "How, in the name
of sense, did you come here at this time of night?"
"I walked by the road," answered Marion, her teeth chattering with
nervousness.
"By the town road," said the doctor; "and who came with you?"
"I came alone, by the bridge road."
"By the bridge road!" exclaimed the doctor, stopping short, as he was
putting on his great-coat. "Why, the bridge is down!"
"I didn't know until I got to it," said Marion, wishing he would hurry,
and not stop to question her; "then it was too late to go back; so I
crossed on the beam."
"The devil you did!" exclaimed the doctor; then catching up the candle
in one hand, he led her by the other into the dining-room. "There! just
sit down there! Your hands are shaking like old Deacon Grump's, and your
teeth chatter as if they were going to drop out. Now drink every drop of
that, while I go and wrap up."
While he had been talking, the doctor had gone to the sideboard, and
poured out a generous glass of sherry, which he handed to Marion; she
took it and drank it all. It sent a genial warmth through her trembling
frame, and by the time the doctor called out to her that he was ready,
she felt quite like herself.
After they were seated in the sleigh, and well tucked up with robes, the
doctor said, "Well now, young lady, if it's agreeable to you, I should
like to know who is sick enough to send you chasing over country roads,
across broken bridges, to rout up an old fellow like me."
"Rachel Drayton, sir," said Marion; "she's had a bad cold for some time;
this afternoon she went to bed with a terrible headache and sore throat,
and now she's in a high fever, and out of her head."
"Rachel Drayton; that's the one with the great black eyes, isn't it?"
said the doctor. "H'm! I remember her; very nervous sort of girl, isn't
she?"
"No, I shouldn't think she was," replied Marion; "she has always seemed
very calm and quiet; you know she's an orphan."
"Yes, I remember her. I saw her the last time I was there. She's just
the one to be delirious with even a very slight illness."
"Then you don't think she's going to be very sick?" asked Marion,
eagerly.
"My dear child," said the doctor, looking down at Marion, "how can I
tell until I've seen her? But good heavens! what's the matter with
you?"
Marion had burst into a fit of laughter, and the doctor sat and looked
at her in perfect amazement.
"What _is_ the matter, child? What are you laughing at?"
But Marion laughed and laughed; throwing her head down into her muff as
if to control herself, and then looking up at the doctor, and laughing
harder than before.
"What's the matter with you, child?" cried the poor man, really growing
uneasy. "Have you gone crazy, or was the wine too much for you?"
"It isn't that, doctor, but you--you--"
"What in the devil's the matter with me, I should like to know!"
"You've--you've--got on your nightcap!" cried Marion, as well as she
could speak.
The doctor dropped the reins, and put both hands to his head. Sure
enough, in the hurry of dressing he had forgotten to take off the
immense bandanna handkerchief he wore tied round his head every night;
and over it he had put his cloth cap, which, fitting tight to his head,
left the ends of the handkerchief sticking out each side like great
horns, giving an indescribably funny appearance to the doctor's jolly
round face.
Now Dr. Brown, although he always considered himself privileged to say
and do anything he had a mind to, was excessively particular about his
toilet, and to take a moonlight drive with a young lady, with his
nightcap on, was quite contrary to his usual habits. However, it was
altogether too ridiculous a situation to do anything but laugh, and the
doctor could enjoy a joke even against himself.
"Laugh on, Marion; I don't blame you a bit," he said. "I must cut a
pretty figure."
"Just look at your shadow; then you'll see for yourself."
The doctor looked over his shoulder. "The devil!" he exclaimed. "Why, I
look just like him, don't I? Depend upon it, that's what it is; I've
called upon his Satanic majesty so often, that now he's after me in good
earnest. Well, old fellow, I'll deprive you of your horns at any rate;"
and the doctor brought the ends of the handkerchief down, and tucked
them under his chin.
"Marion, don't let me go into the house with this thing on. I won't take
it off now, as long as you've seen it, for it's very comfortable this
cold night; but I shouldn't like to shock Miss Stiefbach's dignity by
appearing before her in such a rig."
"Miss Stiefbach is away," replied Marion.
"You don't say so! And the cook sick abed too. Well, Miss Christine has
her hands full."
"And both the other servants are half sick, and Martin went with Miss
Stiefbach."
"And that accounts for your coming out on such a wild-goose chase."
"I was chasing after you, sir," answered Marion, mischievously.
"No insinuations, miss! There's the school-house; get up, Beauty; you're
growing lazy."
Marion found the door unlocked, and entering the house quietly, only
stopping long enough for the doctor to divest himself of his fantastic
head-dress, she led the way upstairs.
"How is she?" anxiously asked Marion of Miss Christine, who met them at
the chamber-door.
"She is more quiet, but I am _very_ glad the doctor is here."
The doctor took off his gloves, rubbed his hands together two or three
times, then went to the bedside.
Rachel looked at him; but seemed to pay no attention to him or any one
else. He felt of her head and pulse, then asked Miss Christine if she
had ever seen her in a fever before.
"No," replied Miss Christine; "but she often has severe headaches; she
has a sore throat now."
"Bring the light nearer," said the doctor. "Now, my dear young lady,
will you please open your mouth?"
But Rachel only moved her head, and showed signs of becoming restless.
The doctor stooped down, opened her mouth himself, and tried to look
down her throat; but she resisted him, and commenced sobbing and
muttering incoherently. The doctor soothed her as he would a little
child, and she became quiet.
"Has she complained of pain in her back and limbs?"
"None at all," replied Miss Christine. "I asked her particularly."
"Give her a teaspoonful of this mixture every half hour until the fever
abates," handing a glass to Miss Christine, "I will come again to-morrow
morning."
"O doctor," whispered Marion, who had silently watched every movement,
"is it scarlet fever?"
Miss Christine said nothing, but her eyes asked the same question.
"Of course I cannot tell yet," said the doctor, rising and drawing on
his gloves, "but I hardly think it is. I noticed her the other day, when
I was here, and remember thinking at the time that even a slight illness
would seem more severe with her than with most persons. She looks like a
person who had suffered and endured without complaint. I don't like to
see that sort of look on a young face. When she is ill this unnatural
self-control gives way, and she's out of her head, when any other
person would be all straight. However, I advise you to keep all the
scholars away from her for the present. As for this young lady," taking
hold of Marion's hand, "the best place for such adventurous young
females, who go about crossing broken bridges at midnight, is bed."
"What do you mean by broken bridges, doctor?" asked Miss Christine.
"Only that the bridge was down, and she crossed on the beams, that's
all. My prescription for her is a glass of hot lemonade with a drop of
something in it to keep it; you understand, Miss Christine;" and the
doctor nodded his head significantly as he left the room.
"My dear Marion," whispered Miss Christine, as she threw her arms around
her, "you are the bravest girl I ever knew!"
"Nonsense!" replied Marion, "and please don't say anything about it
downstairs in the morning; I won't be talked about."
"I understand," said Miss Christine; "but now you must go straight to
bed. I'll heat the lemonade over the gas, and bring it in to you."
"Miss Christine, you go and lie down yourself, and I'll sit up; indeed,
I couldn't sleep if I went to bed."
"Yes, you will, and don't talk of sitting up, for I won't allow it; go
right away."
Marion obeyed; in a very few moments she was in bed, had drank the
lemonade, and, before she knew she was even drowsy, was fast asleep.