wild,--so wild that you would have thought she was going to fly up chimney
the next minute; her gray hair all dishevelled, her eyes staring, her
hands clutching forward, while she gave a sort of howl, what with pain and
agitation.

"Seppy! Seppy!" said she,--"Seppy, my darling! are you quite sure you
remember how to make that precious drink?"

"Quite well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, inwardly much alarmed by her
aspect, but preserving a true Indian composure of outward mien. "I wrote
it down, and could say it by heart besides. Shall I make you a fresh pot
of it? for I have thrown away the other."

"That was well, Seppy," said the poor old woman, "for there is something
wrong about it; but I want no more, for, Seppy dear, I am going fast out
of this world, where you and that precious drink were my only treasures
and comforts. I wanted to know if you remembered the recipe; it is all I
have to leave you, and the more you drink of it, Seppy, the better. Only
see to make it right!"

"Dear auntie, what can I do for you?" said Septimius, in much
consternation, but still calm. "Let me run for the doctor,--for the
neighbors? something must be done!"

The old woman contorted herself as if there were a fearful time in her
insides; and grinned, and twisted the yellow ugliness of her face, and
groaned, and howled; and yet there was a tough and fierce kind of
endurance with which she fought with her anguish, and would not yield to
it a jot, though she allowed herself the relief of shrieking savagely at
it,--much more like a defiance than a cry for mercy.