“Something dreadful happened to me there,” she says, with another shudder. “But indeed I did not think there was any harm in it--I never thought anything would come of it.” “What the devil was it?” cry I, in a jealous heat and hurry; “what the mischief _did_ you do, and why have not you told me about it before?” “I did not _do_ much,” she answers meekly, seeking for my hand, and when found kissing it in timid deprecation of my wrath; “but I was ill--very ill--there; I had a nervous fever. I was in a bed hung with a chintz with a red and green fern-leaf pattern on it. I have always hated red and green fern-leaf chintzes ever since.” “It would be possible to avoid the obnoxious bed, would not it?” say I, laughing a little. “Where does it lie? Windermere? Ulleswater? Wastwater? Where?” “We were at Ulleswater,” she says, speaking rapidly, while a hot colour grows on her small white cheeks--“Papa, mamma, and I; and there came a mesmeriser to Penrith, and we went to see him--everybody did--and he asked leave to mesmerise me--he said I should be such a good medium--and--and--I did not know what it was like. I thought it would be quite good fun--and--and--I let him.” She is trembling exceedingly; even the loving pressure of my arms cannot abate her shivering. “Well?” “And after that I do not remember anything--I believe I did all sorts of extraordinary things that he told me--sang and danced, and made a fool of myself--but when I came home I was very ill, very--I lay in bed for five whole weeks, and--and was off my head, and said odd and wicked things that you would not have expected me to say--that dreadful bed! shall I ever forget it?” “We will _not_ go to the Lakes,” I say, decisively, “and we will not talk any more about mesmerism.” “That is right,” she says, with a sigh of relief, “I try to think about it as little as possible; but sometimes, in the dead black of the night, when God seems a long way off, and the devil near, it comes back to me so strongly--I feel, do not you know, as if he were _there_--somewhere in the room, and I _must_ get up and follow him.” “Why should not we go abroad?” suggest I, abruptly turning the conversation. “Why, indeed?” cries Elizabeth, recovering her gaiety, while her pretty blue eyes begin to dance. “How stupid of us not to have thought of it before; only _abroad_ is a big word. _What_ abroad?” “We must be content with something short of Central Africa,” I say, gravely, “as I think our one hundred and fifty pounds would hardly take us that far.” “Wherever we go, we must buy a dialogue book,” suggests my little bride elect, “and I will learn some phrases before we start.” “As for that, the Anglo-Saxon tongue takes one pretty well round the world,” reply I, with a feeling of complacent British swagger, putting my hands in my breeches pockets.