"
The surgeon, having satisfied himself that everything was as he had left
it, very deliberately resumed his seat and replaced his wig, as he
inquired, with a brevity that would have honored Lieutenant Mason,--
"Had it petticoats, George?"
"I saw nothing but its heavenly eyes--its bloom--its majestic step--its
grace," replied the young man, with rather more ardor than his surgeon
thought consistent with his debilitated condition; and he laid his hand
on his mouth to stop him, saying himself,--
"It must have been Miss Jeanette Peyton--a lady of fine accomplishments,
with--hem--with something of the kind of step you speak of--a very
complacent eye; and as to the bloom, I dare say offices of charity can
summon as fine a color to her cheeks, as glows in the faces of her more
youthful nieces."
"Nieces? Has she nieces, then? The angel I saw may be a daughter, a
sister, or a niece,--but never an aunt."
"Hush, George, hush; your talking has brought your pulse up again. You
must observe quiet, and prepare for a meeting with your own sister, who
will be here within an hour."
"What, Isabella! And who sent for her?"
"The major."
"Considerate Dunwoodie!" murmured the exhausted youth, sinking again on
his pillow, where the commands of his attendant compelled him to
remain silent.
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