“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” said Tish in an angry tone.  It is rare for Tish to use the name of a Biblical character in this way, but she was clearly suffering.  “What in the world are you doing, Aggie?”

“T-t-trying to breathe,” poor Aggie replied.

“Then I wish,” Tish said coldly, “that you would make the effort some place else than on the rocker of my chair.  You jarred me, and I am in no state to be jarred.”

But she refused to explain further, beyond saying, in reply to a question of mine, that she was not feverish and that she had not been asleep, having merely closed her eyes to rest them.  Also she affirmed that she was not taking riding-lessons.  We both noticed however, that she did not leave her chair during the time we were there, and that she was sitting on the sofa cushion I had made her for the previous Christmas, and on which I had embroidered the poet Moore’s beautiful words:  “Come, rest in this bosom.”

As Aggie was still feeling faint, I advised her to take a mouthful of blackberry cordial, which Tish keeps for emergencies in her bathroom closet.  Immediately following her departure the calm of the evening was broken by a loud shriek.

It appeared, on my rushing to the bathroom, while Tish sat heartlessly still, that Aggie, not seeing a glass, had placed the bottle to her lips and taken quite a large mouthful of liniment, which in color resembled the cordial.  I found her sitting on the edge of the bathtub in a state of collapse.

“I’m poisoned!” she groaned.  “Oh, Lizzie, I am not fit to die!”

I flew with the bottle to Tish, who was very calm and stealthily rubbing one of her ankles.

“Do her good,” Tish said.  “Take some of the stiffness out of her liver, for one thing.  But you might keep an eye on her.  It’s full of alcohol.”

“What’s the antidote?” I asked, hearing Aggie’s low groans.

“The gold cure is the only thing I can think of at the moment,” said Tish coldly, and started on the other ankle.

I merely record this incident to show the change in Tish.  Aggie was not seriously upset, although dizzy for an hour or so and very talkative, especially about Mr. Wiggins.

Tish was changed.  Her life, which mostly had been an open book to us, became filled with mystery.  There were whole days when she was not to be located anywhere, and evenings, as I have stated, when she dozed in her chair.

As usual when we are worried about Tish, we consulted her nephew, Charlie Sands.  But like all members of the masculine sex he refused to be worried.

“She’ll be all right,” he observed.  “She takes these spells.  But trust the old lady to come up smiling.”

“It’s either Christian Science or osteopathy,” Aggie said dolefully.  “She’s not herself.  The fruit cake she sent me the other day tasted very queer, and Hannah thinks she put ointment in instead of butter.”

“Ointments!” observed Charlie thoughtfully.  “And salves!  By George, I wonder—­I’ll tell you,” he said:  “I’ll keep an eye open for a few days.  The symptoms sound like—­But never mind.  I’ll let you know.”