“What?” exclaimed the doctor good-humoredly, “are you afraid of me, my little lady?  Do I look so very frightful?”

I was quite surprised at his pleasant tone, and on a nearer survey of his features, felt my passion considerably cooled; but those odious spectacles spoiled all.  I remember soon after being raised up, while some one held a cup to my lips, but whether the draught were good or bad I was unable to determine.  Dr. Irwin now took my mother aside, and whispered something in a low tone, as he placed a small packet in her hands.  I heard my mother say:  “I am afraid she will never take it, doctor,” to which he replied:  “But she must take it, madam—­we cannot consider a child’s humors in the scale with her life.”  I now felt assured that some nauseous compound was being prepared for me; which I firmly resolved to fling in the doctor’s face, should he dare to approach me with it.  I was a perfect fury when roused; and this fancied cruelty excited my strongest passions.

But Dr. Irwin wisely took himself off; and the next morning poor mamma received half the mixture on her dress, while the other half found a resting place on the floor—­a few drops only having slipped down my throat; while one of the servants heard my screams at the end of the village, and the next door neighbor, prompted by humanity, sent to inquire the name of the murdered party.  The next dose was more successful; mamma having spread out before my eyes all her possessions which she thought likely to tempt me, I received permission to make a choice, on condition of swallowing a spoonful of calomel jalap.  I further displayed my gentleness by biting Dr. Irwin’s fingers when he attempted to look at my throat, and the good man evidently regarded me as a pretty refractory patient.

I always had a great horror of being sick—­that is, a real, regular fit of sickness, where you are perched up in bed, and have to do as other people please, and have only just what covering they please—­when you are not suffered to put an arm out, or toss off a quilt that almost smothers you, or drink a drop of cold water.  Once in a while, I thought, to be just sufficiently sick to sit in the easy chair and look over mother’s pretty things, or daub with her color-box, while people brought me oranges and waited upon me, did very well.  I was not a gentle, timid, feminine sort of a child, as I have said before—­one who would faint at the prick of a pin, or weep showers of tears for a slight headache; I was a complete little hoyden, full of life and spirits, to whom the idea of being in bed in the day-time was extremely disagreeable—­and when I had been “awful,” according to the nursery phraseology, the greatest punishment that could be inflicted upon me was to send me thither to enjoy the charms of solitude.  I was a female edition of my brother Fred; not quite so prone to tricks and mischief, perhaps—­but almost as wild and unmanageable.