Chapter 12

This fairy form contains a soul as mighty,
As that which lives within a giant's frame;
These slender limbs, that tremble like the aspen
At summer evening's sigh, uphold a spirit,
Which, roused, can tower to the height of heaven,
And light those shining windows of the face
With much of heaven's own radiance.

--Duo.

The number and character of her guests had greatly added to the cares of
Miss Jeanette Peyton. The morning found them all restored, in some
measure, to their former ease of body, with the exception of the
youthful captain of dragoons, who had been so deeply regretted by
Dunwoodie. The wound of this officer was severe, though the surgeon
persevered in saying that it was without danger. His comrade, we have
shown, had deserted his couch; and Henry Wharton awoke from a sleep that
had been undisturbed by anything but a dream of suffering amputation
under the hands of a surgical novice. As it proved, however, to be
nothing but a dream, the youth found himself much refreshed by his
slumbers; and Dr. Sitgreaves removed all further apprehensions by
confidently pronouncing that he would be a well man within a fortnight.

During all this time Colonel Wellmere did not make his appearance; he
breakfasted in his own room, and, notwithstanding certain significant
smiles of the man of science, declared himself too much injured to rise
from his bed. Leaving him, therefore, endeavoring to conceal his chagrin
in the solitude of his chamber, the surgeon proceeded to the more
grateful task of sitting an hour by the bedside of George Singleton. A
slight flush was on the face of the patient as the doctor entered the
room, and the latter advanced promptly and laid his fingers on the pulse
of the youth, beckoning to him to be silent, while he muttered,--

"Growing symptoms of a febrile pulse--no, no, my dear George, you must
remain quiet and dumb; though your eyes look better, and your skin has
even a moisture."

"Nay, my dear Sitgreaves," said the youth, taking his hand, "you see
there is no fever about me; look, is there any of Jack Lawton's
hoarfrost on my tongue?"

"No, indeed," said the surgeon, clapping a spoon in the mouth of the
other, forcing it open, and looking down his throat as if disposed to
visit the interior in person. "The tongue is well, and the pulse begins
to lower again. Ah! the bleeding did you good. Phlebotomy is a sovereign
specific for southern constitutions. But that madcap Lawton absolutely
refused to be blooded for a fall he had from his horse last night. Why,
George, your case is becoming singular," continued the doctor,
instinctively throwing aside his wig. "Your pulse even and soft, your
skin