Miss Dragwell walked to the window. Although the report spread by Betsy
had collected a crowd opposite the house, still there was no attempt at
violence.

"I'm afraid that it's too late," said the young lady, turning from the
window. "What a crowd! and how angry they seem to be! you must be hanged
now!"

"O no! I'll be mad--I'll be anything, my dear Miss Dragwell."

"Well, then, we must be quick--don't put your gown on--petticoats are
better--I'll dress you up." Miss Dragwell rummaged the drawers, and
collecting a variety of feathers and coloured ribbons, pinned them over
the bandages which encircled Mrs Forster's head; then pulling out a
long-tailed black coat of her husband's which had been condemned, forced
her arms through it, and buttoned it in front. "That will do for the
present," cried Miss Dragwell; "now here's the cat, take it in your
arms, go to the window, and nurse it like a baby. I'll throw it
open--you come forward and make them a curtsey; that will spread the
report through the town that you are mad, and the rest will then be
easy."

"Oh! I can't--I can't go to the window, I can't, indeed."

"I'll open the window and speak to the people," said Miss Dragwell; and
she threw up the sash, informing the gaping multitude that Mrs Forster
was quite out of her senses, but perfectly harmless.

"Perfectly harmless, after killing a man!" observed one of the party