"Why should she stop?" said Mrs. Turner, rising, too, in her agitation. "Oh, is it a warning, is it a warning? for my child has seen it,--Connie has seen it." "Listen to me, all of you," said Mary, with an effort. "You all know--who that is. And she has seen her,--the little girl--" Now the others looked at each other, exchanging a startled look. "My dear people," cried the doctor, "the case is not the least unusual. No, no, Mrs. Turner, it is no warning,--it is nothing of the sort. Look here, Bowyer; you'll believe me. The child is very nervous and sensitive. She has evidently seen a picture somewhere of our dear old friend. She has heard the story somehow,--oh, perhaps in some garbled version from Prentiss, or--of course they've all been talking of it. And the child is one of those creatures with its nerves all on the surface,--and a little below par in health, in need of iron and quinine, and all that sort of thing. I've seen a hundred such cases," cried the doctor, "--a thousand such; but now, of course, we'll have a fine story made of it, now that it's come into the ladies' hands." He was much excited with this long speech; but it cannot be said that any one paid much attention to him. Mrs. Bowyer was holding Mary in her arms, uttering little cries and sobs over her, and looking anxiously at her husband. The vicar sat down suddenly in his chair, with the air of a man who has judgment to deliver without the least idea what to say; while Mary, freeing herself unconsciously from her friend's restraining embrace, stood facing them all with a sort of trembling defiance; and Mrs. Turner kept on explaining nervously that,--"no, no, her Connie was not excitable, was not oversensitive, had never known what a delusion was." "This is very strange," the vicar said. "Oh, Mr. Bowyer," cried Mary, "tell me what I am to do!--think if she cannot rest, if she is not happy, she that was so good to everybody, that never could bear to see any one in trouble. Oh, tell me, tell me what I am to do! It is you that have disturbed her with all you have been saying. Oh, what can I do, what can I do to give her rest?" "My dear Mary! my dear Mary!" they all cried, in different tones of consternation; and for a few minutes no one could speak. Mrs. Bowyer, as was natural, said something, being unable to endure the silence; but neither she nor any of the others knew what it was she said. When it was evident that the vicar must speak, all were silent, waiting for him; and though it now became imperative that something in the shape of a judgment must be delivered, yet he was as far as ever from knowing what to say. "Mary," he said, with a little tremulousness of voice, "it is quite natural that you should ask me; but, my dear, I am not at all prepared to answer. I think you know that the doctor, who ought to know best about such matters--" "Nay, not I. I only know about the physical; the other,--if there is another,--that's your concern."