Through the Stethoscope One morning the Mad Hatter was madder than ever.

It was impossible to hold her attention.

The black eyes blazed as they wandered, the paralytic pencil was hot in her burning fingers.

When she laid it down towards the end of the morning and rested her head on her hands, Miss Quincey had not the heart to urge her to the loathsome toil.

She let her talk.
"Miss Quincey," said the Mad Hatter in a solemn whisper, "I'm going to tell you a secret.