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.”

“Who ought to know best,” repeated Mr. Bowyer; “for every body will tell you, my dear, that the mind is so dependent upon the body.  I suppose he must be right.  I suppose it is just the imagination of a nervous child working upon the data which have been given,—­the picture; and then, as you justly remind me, all we have been saying—­”

“How could the child know what we have been saying, Francis?”

“Connie has heard nothing that any one has been saying; and there is no picture.”

“My dear lady, you hear what the doctor says.  If there is no picture, and she has heard nothing, I suppose, then, your premises are gone, and the conclusion falls to the ground.”

“What does it matter about premises?” cried the vicar’s wife; “here is something dreadful that has happened.  Oh, what nonsense that is about imagination; children have no imagination.  A dreadful thing has happened.  In heaven’s name, Francis, tell this poor child what she is to do.”

“My dear,” said the vicar again, “you are asking me to believe in purgatory,—­nothing less.  You are asking me to contradict the church’s teaching.  Mary, you must compose yourself.  You must wait till this excitement has passed away.”