"Hoist me to the drawin'-room, then," she said. "Hennessey, will you walk behind?"
The procession was formed, and the little old lady proceeded by a succession of jerks to the upper floor, her silk gown rustling against the balusters, and her tiny feet dangling loosely in mid-air, while her long and elegant head nodded each time Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus pranced carefully sideways to a higher step. The Prophet followed solicitously behind, with hands outstretched to check any dangerous recoil. His face was very grave, but not entirely unhappy.
"Set me down by the fire," said Mrs. Merillia, when she found herself being smoothly propelled through the atmosphere of the drawing-room.
The menials obeyed with breathless assiduity.
"And now bring me a sandwich, a glass of toast and water and a fan, if you please. Yes, put the footstool well under me."
"Dearest grannie," said the Prophet, when the men had retired, "are you in great pain?"
"Yes, at my accident. For my ankle is sprained, I'm almost sure, and I shall have to lie up presently in wet bandages. Tell me, are you really pained that I have had the accident you prophesied?"
She glanced from her grandson to the telescope that pointed toward the stars and back again.
"I am, indeed, sincerely grieved," the Prophet answered with genuine emotion.
"Yes. But if I'd jumped out all right, and was sittin' here now in a perfect condition of health, you'd have been sincerely grieved, too."
"I hope not, grannie," said the Prophet. But he looked meditative.
Mr. Ferdinand brought the toast and water, the sandwich and the fan. When he had trodden across the carpet out of the room Mrs. Merillia continued,--
"Hennessey, you see where this prophetic business is leadin' you. It has made you charmed at my accident. Yes, it has."
She spoke without any pathos, humorously indeed, in a bright tone full of common sense. And she nodded at him over her toast and water with a chaffing, demure smile. But the Prophet winced and put his hand to his thick brown hair.
"No, no," he cried quickly. "That's impossible. It can't be." But the statements sounded like perturbed questions.
"Think!" said his grandmother, looking down at her poor, helpless foot as it lay on the velvet stool. "If I hadn't had an accident to-night, you'd have been obliged to think ill of--of--which of them was it that had the impertinence to talk my affairs over with you?"