Bella, Emily—a surgeon! Is he wounded?—Is he dead? —Is he———ha, ha, ha!" Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.
"Calm yourself," said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. "Dear, dear madam, calm yourself."
"It is his voice!" exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith.
"Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam," said Mr. Tupman soothingly. "I am very little hurt, I assure you."
"Then you are not dead!" ejaculated the hysterical lady. "Oh, say you are not dead!"
"Don't be a fool, Rachael," interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than was quite consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. "What the devil's the use of his saying he isn't dead?"
"No, no, I am not," said Mr. Tupman. "I require no assistance but yours. Let me lean on your arm." He added, in a whisper, "Oh, Miss Rachael!" The agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.
"Are you faint?" inquired the anxious Rachael.
"No," said Mr. Tupman. "It is nothing. I shall be better presently." He closed his eyes.
"He sleeps," murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds). "Dear—dear—Mr. Tupman!"
Mr. Tupman jumped up—"Oh, say those words again!" he exclaimed.
The lady started. "Surely you did not hear them!" she said, bashfully.
"Oh yes I did!" replied Mr. Tupman; "repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them."
"Hush!" said the lady. "My brother."
