and declaimed it, with suitable variations. The insolent speaker who had provoked Lady Trevanion into speech had sneered at her as a woman, and Lady Trevanion, a magnificent creature in her velvet and pearls, rose to her feet, amid hushed and dramatic silence, and said,
“The atrocious crime of being a woman which the honourable member has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall attempt neither to palliate nor deny, but shall content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their sex and not one of that number who are ignorant in spite of manhood and experience.”
(Here she was always interrupted by thunders of applause.)
But the savour was entirely lacking in this scene today and by the time Emily had reached the line, “But womanhood, Sir, is not my only crime”—she gave up in disgust and fell to worrying over Ilse’s mother again, mixed up with some uneasy speculations regarding the climax of her story about the ghost of the well, mingled with her unpleasant physical sensations.
Her eyes hurt her when she moved them. She was chilly, although the July day was hot. She was still lying there when Aunt Elizabeth came up to ask why she hadn’t gone to bring the cows home from the pasture.
“I—I didn’t know it was so late,” said Emily confusedly. “I—my head aches, Aunt Elizabeth.”
Aunt Elizabeth rolled up the white cotton blind and looked at Emily. She noted her flushed face—she felt her pulse. Then she bade her shortly to stay where she was, went down, and sent Perry for Dr. Burnley.
“Probably she’s got the measles,” said the doctor as gruffly as usual. Emily was not yet sick enough to be gentle over. “There’s an outbreak of them at Derry Pond. Has she had any chance to catch them?”
“Jimmy Joe Belle’s two children were here one afternoon about ten days ago. She played with them—she’s
