"'Rabbit!'"

"I will suck his best blood!" continued the
unchristian Christian. "That's for him."

"His b—b—best—" (This epicurism in
sanguisuction shocked poor Murrell beyond
further speech.)

"As for you, my boy, no blabbing of what I
may do, or I'll roast you quietly alive, and
devour you afterwards. That's a common form
of correction for tell-tales in the tropics."

This did not add relish to the custard tart.

Setting "Rabbit" on her was about as
explanatory as the witch's declaration that she was
bound for Aleppo in a sieve, for the purpose of
"doing." But Murrell possessed a clue.

A street-crossing, within fifty yards of Tweezum
Hall, was presided over at this period by an
elderly person who was worthy to have been the
mother of the enterprising witch just mentioned.
Her countenance was of a cocoa-nut hue, with
yellow rings—to be exact, they were of the colour
of the cast skin of a python—round the most
baleful eye ever seen out of a serpent's head.
The body was considerably bent, a circumstance
which engendered in her an intense spite
against the whole human race. Nevertheless,
it paid; imparting to her an air of upward
supplication which, combined with the poor wretch's
infirmity, drew many a sixpence into her greedy
hand.

She had made her appearance, with her
broom (perhaps, upon it, from Aleppo), about
five months since, expelling, without ceremony,
an imbecile old gentleman who had reigned
peaceably there since crossings were invented.
A faint demonstration was made, chiefly by the
street-boys, on behalf of the dethroned monarch
of the mire. The usurper was christened
"Mother Rabbit"—none knew by whom—but
it was sufficient that the name seemed to
incense the old woman beyond expression, and it
was accordingly applied on every favourable
occasion. On the whole, however, the impression
went abroad that Mother Rabbit was an
individual rather to conciliate than offend, and
there were not wanting persons of the better
class who kept the hideous old woman in good
humour by little presents, either in money or in
snuff; articles which seemed to hold an equal
place in her affections.

For some reason—perhaps the approximation
to a certain resemblance between them in
complexion and general style—Mother Rabbit,
from the first, exhibited tokens of strong
predilection for our honourable friend. No
sooner was his lank form seen in the distance,
towering over the heads of his companions,
than Mistress Rabbit's whole demeanour
underwent a remarkable change. Leaning on her
broom till she had, so to speak, bent herself
nearly straight, her fearful eyes distended to the
utmost, and her toothless gums displayed in a
hideous grin, she would watch his approach as
if he were, to her, the only visible object in
the world. If he crossed, she attended him so
closely, and with so alarming a manifestation
of a desire to bestow upon him still more
significant proofs of her regard, that Mr. Bohné was
fain to repulse her in terms more emphatic than
ambiguous. Mother Rabbit always shut herself
up again, like a dirty fan, and cowered away.

Christian's more privileged friends were wont
to chaff him on the subject of his conquest.
He took it very well; and, although he
discountenanced the old hag's public demonstrations,
we knew that, by alms and gracious looks
furtively bestowed, he fed her lurid preference.

It came to pass that, on a certain Sunday,
Desirée's place in the Lamond pew was vacant.
I had not seen her flitting past her favourite
window during the previous week. I remembered,
with something like a heart-throb, that
she had looked singularly pale and wistful last
Sunday, and had kept her sweet face towards
me about two seconds longer than usual.
Likewise that, during the last few days, certain
half-closed casements, and an unwonted air of
quiet about the house, had indicated the
presence of illness.

My fears were quickly realised. A neighbouring
practitioner, Mr. Borehouse (of course,
we called him Boreas), was accustomed to pay a
periodical visit to Dr. Normicutt's, chiefly, I
believe, to allow of Mrs. N.'s sticking "medical
attendance" into the boys' bills. He was a
burly, red-faced man, with a jovial and pleasant
manner. He was fond of boys, and preferred
holding his sanitary inspection in the open
playground; where, surrounded by a mob of grinning
patients all teeming with health, he would sit
for an hour, joking, telling funny stories, and
nursing one fat leg after the other, until time
compelled him to depart.

On such an occasion, as Boreas, in his kindly,
blusterous way, was bidding us farewell, the
enthusiasm in his favour found vent in a cheer.
He raised his hand quickly.

"Hush, my boys," he said, "I've a little
patient not far from hence, whose best chance
of recovery depends upon what no human skill
seems able to procure for her, quiet, sound
sleep. You are gentlemen, and good fellows
—and precious noisy at your games sometimes.
I say no more."

He had glanced in the direction of the
Lamonds' house; but that was not necessary. I
knew, somehow, that he meant Desirée. He
was moving away, when I followed, and touched
his sleeve.

"Is she v—very ill, doctor?" I stammered
out, colouring, I was fatally aware, to the roots
of my hair.

"Hallo, young fellow!" said the doctor, as if
he were detecting my blush in the very act.
"Why, yes, my boy, she is ill, very ill. And if
you can tell us what's the matter with her, you
will be a cleverer doctor than any of us."

"Perhaps—perhaps she's in love!" I blurted
out.

"Why, you precious young Corydon, what
do you know of such matters yet? Love, sir!
Love a pudding's end!" ejaculated the doctor.

I replied with sincerity, that upon the whole
I preferred a pudding's beginning; but, if I