“Oh, no, I’m not!” said the girl, shaking her head under the hands of the demonstrator.  “The fire’s blazing and the drums are beating like anything.”

Mrs. Harriet’s hue deepened, and there was a faint murmur of vague reproof from the company.

“H’sh!” said the demonstrator, closing her hands upon the patient’s head with some acrimony.  “H’sh!”

And she began to breathe hard once more.  Another five minutes elapsed, and then Mrs. Harriet exclaimed with decision,—­

“There!  It’s gone now, all gone!  I’ve sent it right away.  The fire’s out and the drums have stopped beating!”

Exclamations of wonder and joy rose up from the spectators.  They were, however, a trifle premature, for the hysterical girl—­who was, it seemed, a person of considerable determination, despite her feeble appearance—­replied from the footstool,—­

“No, it isn’t.  No they haven’t!”

Mrs. Harriet developed a purple shade.

“Nonsense!” she said.  “You’re cured, love, entirely cured!”

“I’m not,” said the girl, beginning to cry.  “I feel much worse since you pressed my head.”

There was a burst of remonstrance from the crowd, and Mrs. Harriet, speaking with the air of an angry martyr, remarked,—­

“It’s just like the drinking—­she fancies she isn’t cured when she is, just the same as she fancied she was drinking when she wasn’t.”

This unanswerable logic naturally carried conviction to everyone present, and the hysterical girl was warmly advised to make due acknowledgement of the benefits received by her at the healing hands of Mrs. Harriet, while the latter was covered with compliments and assiduously conducted towards the buffet, escorted by the great Towle.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” said Mrs. Bridgeman, turning ecstatically to the person nearest to her, who happened to be the saturnine little clergyman.  “Isn’t she marvellous, Mr.—­er—­Mr. Segerteribus?”

“Biggle!” cried the little clergyman.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Biggle!” vociferated the little clergyman.  “Biggle!”

“Certainly.  Did you ever see anything like that cure?  Ah! you ought to preach about dear Harriet, Mr. Segerteribus, you really—­”

“Biggle!” reiterated the little clergyman, excitedly.  “Biggle!  Biggle!”

“What does he—­” began Mrs. Bridgeman, turning helplessly towards the Prophet.

“It’s his name, I fancy,” whispered the Prophet.

Mrs. Bridgeman started and smiled.

“Mr. Biggle,” she said.

The little clergyman moved on towards the guitars with all the air of a future colonial bishop.  Mrs. Bridgeman, who seemed to be somewhat confused, and whose manner grew increasingly vague as the evening wore on, now said to those nearest to her,—­

“There are fifteen tables set out—­yes, set out,—­in the green boudoir.”

“Bedad!” remarked an Irish colonel, “then it’s meself’ll enjoy a good rubber.”