'
'You must, Milly--Mrs. Bustle. I'll be Mrs. Bustle, or anything you like.
You must.' I was blubbering like Milly, and hugging my best; and, indeed, I
wonder how we kept our feet.
So Milly and I were better friends than ever.
Meanwhile, the winter deepened, and we had short days and long nights,
and long fireside gossipings at Bartram-Haugh. I was frightened at the
frequency of the strange collapses to which Uncle Silas was subject. I
did not at first mind them much, for I naturally fell into Milly's way of
talking about them.
But one day, while in one of his 'queerish' states, he called for me, and I
saw him, and was unspeakably scared.
In a white wrapper, he lay coiled in a great easy chair. I should have
thought him dead, had I not been accompanied by old L'Amour, who knew every
gradation and symptom of these strange affections.
She winked and nodded to me with a ghastly significance, and whispered--
'Don't make no noise, miss, till he talks; he'll come to for a bit, anon.'
Except that there was no sign of convulsions, the countenance was like that
of an epileptic arrested in one of his contortions.
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