"What can we do for Frances, mamma? Will you let her have your
smelling bottle, or shall I run and get some sal volatile?"

"Neither, my dear Mary; it is an indisposition caused by her own
selfish appetite, and probably the relief may be obtained by her
stomach rejecting what she so improperly forced upon it. We will wait
a short time, and if not, I will give her something less palatable,
perhaps, than plum-cake, but necessary to remove it."

Frances was too ill to make any remark; she became paler still, and
then quickly flushed almost a crimson color, her eyes were oppressed,
and her eyebrows contracted, and she impatiently complained,

"O my head! how it beats! What shall I do, mamma?"

"Bear the consequences of your own inordinate appetite, Frances, and
learn to subject it to the wholesome rules of temperance."

"O the nasty plum-cake! I wish you had not given me any, mamma."

"You _once_ thought the plum-cake _nice_, and you would
not be contented with the small portion I knew to be sufficient and
safe for you."

"O my head! I think it is very cruel, mamma, that you do not pity me."

"I do pity you, Frances, and will take care of you now that I see
you require help, as I perceive that you will not have any relief
without medicine."