"Why? I am quite well now: it can't break my collar-bone again, or dislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?"
"No; nor dew".
"I don't want dew; I don't like dew: but what is it?"
"Ale—strong ale—old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born".
"It must be curious: is it good?"
"Excessively good".
And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this mighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentment with the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.
"I should like a little", said Paulina, looking up; "I never had any 'old October': is it sweet?"
"Perilously sweet", said Graham.
She continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child that longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it down, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste from his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation of pleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it was a gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by which its brim was courted.
"A little more—a little more", said she, petulantly touching his hand with the forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and yieldingly. "It smells of spice and sugar, but I can't taste it; your wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy".
He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: "Don't tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn't approve".
"Nor do I", said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: "I find it anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no more".
And, with a slight bend—careless, but as graceful as her dance—she glided from him and rejoined her father.
I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl of seventeen.
