I am awakened by the
mention of my baptismal name in that peculiar species of whisper
which has something uncanny in its very nature, besides the dismal
associations which belong to it, from the fact of its being used only
in melodramas and sick-rooms.
"_Henry, Henry, Henry!_"
How many times she had repeated this I know not; the sound falls on
my ear like the lapping of a hundred waves, or as the "Robin Crusoe,
Robin Crusoe," of the parrot smote upon the ear of the terrified
islander of Defoe; but at last I wake, to view, by the dim firelight,
this vision: Mrs. B. is sitting up beside me, in a listening attitude
of the very intensest kind; her nightcap (one with cherry-coloured
ribbons, such as it can be no harm to speak about) is tucked back
behind either ear; her hair--in paper--is rolled out of the way upon
each side like a banner furled; her eyes are rather wide open, and
her mouth very much so; her fingers would be held up to command
attention, but that she is supporting herself in a somewhat absurd
manner upon her hands.
"_Henry_, did you hear _that_?"
"What, my love?"
"That noise. There it is again; there--there."
The disturbance referred to is that caused by a mouse nibbling at the
wainscot; and I venture to say so much in a tone of the deepest
conviction.
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