“I’ll go down to him,” I said, preparing to rise.

“No you won’t;” and Mrs. Splinter’s strong arm, as well as Bessie’s soft hand, patted me down again.

Dr. Bolster pronounced, as well he might, that all danger was over.  The blow on my head—­I must have struck it with force against the projecting window-shelf as I sprang up—­was enough to have stunned me; but the doctor, I found, was inclined to theorize:  “A sudden vertigo, a dizziness:  the Shaker hymns and dances have that effect sometimes upon persons viewing them for the first time.  Or perhaps the heat of the room.”  He calmly fingered my pulse for a few seconds, with his fat ticking watch in his other hand, and then retired to the bureau to write a prescription, which I was indignantly prepared to repudiate.  But Bessie, in a delightful little pantomime, made signs to me to be patient:  we could throw it all out of the window afterward if need be.

“A soothing draught, and let him keep quiet for a day or so, will be all that is required.  I will call to-morrow if you would prefer it.”

“We will send you a note, doctor, to-morrow morning:  he seems so much stronger already that perhaps it will not be necessary to make you take such a long drive.”

“Yes, yes, I’m very busy.  You send me word whether to come or not.”

And bustlingly the good doctor departed, with Mrs. Splinter majestically descending to hold whispered conference with him at the gate.

“Charlie, I will send for Dr. Wilder if you are ready, for I’m never going to leave you another minute as long as we live.”

“I think,” said I, laughing, “that I should like to stand up first on my feet; that is, if I have any feet.”

What a wonderful prop and support was Bessie!  How skillfully she helped me to step once, twice, across the floor! and when I sank down, very tired, in the comfortable easy-chair by the window, she knelt on the floor beside me and bathed my forehead with fragrant cologne, that certainly did not come from Mrs. Splinter’s tall bottle of lavender compound on the bureau.

“Oh, my dear boy, I have so much to say!  Where shall I begin?”

“At the end,” I said quietly.  “Send for Dr. Wilder.”

“But don’t you want to hear what a naughty girl—­”

“No, I want to hear nothing but ‘I, Elizabeth, take thee—­’”

“But I’ve been so very jealous, so suspicious and angry. Don’t you want to hear how bad I am?”

“No,” I said, closing the discussion after an old fashion of the Sloman cottage, “not until we two walk together to the Ledge to-morrow, my little wife and I.”

“Where’s a card—­your card, Charlie?  It would be more proper-like, as Mrs. Splinter would say, for you to write it.”

“I will try,” I said, taking out a card-case from my breast-pocket.  As I drew it forth my hand touched a package, Fanny Meyrick’s packet.  Shall I give it to her now?  I hesitated.  No, we’ll be married first in the calm faith that each has in the other to-day, needing no outward assurance or written word.