“It’s happened, Hennessey, it’s happened!  But it was my own doin’ and yours.  You shouldn’t have prophesied at your age, and I shouldn’t have jumped at mine.

“Dearest grannie!” cried the Prophet, on his knees beside her, “how grieved, how shocked I am!  Is it—­is it—­”

“Sprained, Hennessey?”

He nodded.  Mechanically Mr. Ferdinand nodded.  Gustavus let his powdered head drop, too, in imitation of his superiors.

“I’ll tell you in the drawin’—­room.”

She placed her pretty, mittened hands upon the arms of the chair, and gave a little wriggle, trying to get up.  Then she cried out musically,—­

“No, I must be carried up.  Mr. Ferdinand!”

“Ma’am!”

“Is Gustavus to be trusted?”

“Trusted, ma’am!” cried Mr. Ferdinand, looking at Gustavus, who had assumed an expression of pale and pathetic dignity.  “Trusted—­a London footman!  Oh, ma’am!”

His voice failed.  He choked and began to rummage in the pocket of his black tail coat for his perfumed handkerchief.

“T’st, t’st!  I mean his arms,” said Mrs. Merillia, patting her delicate hands quickly on the chair.  “Can he carry me?”

The countenance of Mr. Ferdinand cleared, while Gustavus eagerly extended his right arm, bent it sharply, and allowed his magnificent biceps to rise up in sudden majesty.  Mrs. Merillia was reassured.

“Hoist me to the drawin’-room, then,” she said.  “Hennessey, will you walk behind?”

The procession was formed, and the little old lady proceeded by a succession of jerks to the upper floor, her silk gown rustling against the balusters, and her tiny feet dangling loosely in mid-air, while her long and elegant head nodded each time Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus pranced carefully sideways to a higher step.  The Prophet followed solicitously behind, with hands outstretched to check any dangerous recoil.  His face was very grave, but not entirely unhappy.

“Set me down by the fire,” said Mrs. Merillia, when she found herself being smoothly propelled through the atmosphere of the drawing-room.

The menials obeyed with breathless assiduity.

“And now bring me a sandwich, a glass of toast and water and a fan, if you please.  Yes, put the footstool well under me.”

“Dearest grannie,” said the Prophet, when the men had retired, “are you in great pain?”

“No, Hennessey.  Are you?”

Mrs. Merillia’s green eyes twinkled.

“I!”

“Yes, at my accident.  For my ankle is sprained, I’m almost sure, and I shall have to lie up presently in wet bandages.  Tell me, are you really pained that I have had the accident you prophesied?”

She glanced from her grandson to the telescope that pointed toward the stars and back again.

“I am, indeed, sincerely grieved,” the Prophet answered with genuine emotion.

“Yes.  But if I’d jumped out all right, and was sittin’ here now in a perfect condition of health, you’d have been sincerely grieved, too.”