was her friend, did not want her to hear.  This naturally aroused her attention at once.  She listened to the child’s description with growing eagerness, all the more because the doctor opposed.  “Now that will do, Miss Connie,” he said; “it is one of the old Miss Murchisons, who are always so fond of finding out about their neighbors.  I have no doubt at all on that subject.  She wants to find you out in your pet naughtiness, whatever it is, and tell me.”

“I am sure it is not for that,” cried Connie.  “Oh, how can you be so disagreeable?  I know she is not a lady who would tell.  Besides, she is not thinking at all about me.  She was either looking for something she had lost, or,—­oh, I don’t know what it was!—­and when she saw me she just smiled.  She is not dressed like any of the people here.  She had got no cloak on, or bonnet, or anything that is common, but a beautiful white shawl and a long dress, and it gives a little sweep when she walks,—­oh no! not like your rustling, mamma; but all soft, like water,—­and it looks like lace upon her head, tied here,” said Connie, putting her hands to her chin, “in such a pretty, large, soft knot.”  Mary had gradually risen as this description went on, starting a little at first, looking up, getting upon her feet.  The color went altogether out of her face,—­her eyes grew to twice their natural size.  The doctor put out his hand without looking at her, and laid it on her arm with a strong, emphatic pressure.  “Just like some one you have seen a picture of,” he said.

“Oh no.  I never saw a picture that was so pretty,” said the child.

“Doctor, why do you ask her any more? don’t you see, don’t you see, the child has seen—­”

“Miss Mary, for God’s sake, hold your tongue; it is folly, you know.  Now, my little girl, tell me.  I know this old lady is the very image of that pretty old lady with the toys for good children, who was in the last Christmas number?”

“Oh!” said Connie, pausing a little.  “Yes, I remember; it was a very pretty picture,—­mamma put it up in the nursery.  No, she is not like that, not at all, much prettier; and then my lady is sorry about something,—­except when she smiles at me.  She has her hair put up like this, and this,” the child went on, twisting her own bright locks.

“Doctor, I can’t bear any more.”

“My dear, you are mistaken, it is all a delusion.  She has seen a picture.  I think now, Mrs. Turner, that my little patient had better run away and play.  Take a good run through the woods, Miss Connie, with your brother, and I will send you some physic which will not be at all nasty, and we shall hear no more of your old lady.  My dear Miss Vivian, if you will but hear reason!  I have known such cases a hundred times.  The child has seen a picture, and it has taken possession of her imagination.  She is a little below par, and she has a lively imagination; and she has learned something from Prentiss, though probably she does not remember that.  And there it is! a few doses of quinine, and she will see visions no more.”