And Jael took it, and went away very cross and very ogre-footed, with her cap still awry; and as she stumped down the attic-stairs, and kept clattering the Rushlight against the rails, I could hear her muttering--"A sinful waste of candle-grease--whims and fancies--scandilus!" CHAPTER III. PAIN PAST--A REPRIEVE FROM THE BARBER--SUNFLOWER SLEEP--LITTLE MICHAELMAS GOOSE--SNUFFING A RUSHLIGHT--A PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES--GRANDMAMMA WITH A WATCHMAN'S RATTLE. Jael's ogre-footsteps had hardly ceased to resound from the wooden stairs, when these shook again to the tread of Dr. Brown. He said--"How are you?" and I said--"Very happy, thank you," which was true. For the only nice thing about dreadful pain is that, when it is gone, you feel for a little bit as if you could cry with joy at having nothing to bear. Then I thanked him for asking Grandmamma to let me have the Rushlight till Margery came home; and he said I ought to be very much obliged to him, for he had begged me off the barber too. So I asked him if he thought my hair gave me headaches, and he felt it, and said--"No!" which I was very glad of. He said he thought it was more what I grew inside, than what I grew outside my head that did it, and that I was not to puzzle too much over books. I was afraid he meant the Puzzling Tale, so I told him it was very short, and the answer was given; so he said he should like to hear it--and I read it to him. He liked it very much, and he liked the picture; and I told him we thought they were Sunflowers, only that the glory leaves were folded in so oddly, and we did not know why. And he said--"Why, because they're asleep, to be sure. Don't you know that flowers sleep as soundly as you do? _They_ don't lie awake in the dark!" And then he shook with laughing, till he shook the red into his face, and the tears into his eyes, as he always does. Dr. Brown must know a great deal about flowers, much more than I thought he did; I told him so, and he said, "Didn't think I looked as like a flower sprite as yourself, eh? 'Pon my word, I don't think I'm unlike one of your favourites. Tall, ye know, big beaming face, eh? There are people more unlike a Sunflower than Dr. Brown! Ha! ha! ha!" He laughed, he always does; but he told me quite delightful things about flowers: how they sleep, and breathe, and eat, and drink, and catch cold in draughts, and turn faint in the sun, and sometimes are all the better for a change ("like Miss Margery," so he said), and sometimes are home-sick and won't settle ("which I've a notion might be one of your follies, Miss Grace"), and turn pale and sickly in dark corners or stuffy rooms. But he never knew one that went home at night.