Old Sally was bustling about over pots and stew-pans, getting supper;
old Peter stood at the table peeling potatoes. In an arm-chair before
the fire sat another old woman with snaky-black eyes, hooked nose, and
incipient black mustache.
Old Sally was volubly narrating what had transpired upstairs, and cut
herself short upon the entrance of her master.
"How are you, mother?" said Dr. Oleander, nodding to the venerable party
in the arm-chair. "Sally's telling you about my patient, is she?"
His mother's answer was a stifled scream, which Sally echoed.
"Well, what now?" demanded the doctor.
"You look like a ghost! Gracious me, Guy!" cried his mother, in
consternation; "you're whiter than the tablecloth."
Dr. Oleander ground out an oath.
"I dare say I am. I've just had a scare from that little, crazy imp that
would blanch any man. I thought, in my soul, she was going to spring
upon me like a panther and choke me. She would have, too, by Jove, if
I hadn't cleared out."
"Lor'!" cried Sally, in consternation, "and I've just been a-telling the
missis how sweet, and gentle, and innocent, and pretty she looked.
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