I believe I am going to die!' She was dripping wet, and little puddles of water trailed along the carpet as Peterkin carried her into the sitting room, where he was about to lay her down upon the delicate satin couch, when his wife's housewifely instincts were roused, and she exclaimed: 'No, father.

No, not there, when she's so wet, and water spots that satin so dreadfully.' 'What in thunder shall I do with her?
Hold her all night ?' Peterkin demanded, while Tom deliberately picked up the costly Turkey hearth rug, and throwing it across the couch, said: 'Put her on that.' So Peterkin deposited her upon the rug, hitting her foot again, and sending her off in a dead faint.
'Oh, she's dead! she's dead! What shall we do ?' Mrs.Peterkin cried, wringing her hands, and walking about excitedly.
'Do ?' Peterkin yelled.

'Hold your yawp, and stop floppin' round like a hen with her head cut off! She ain't dead.

She's fainted.

Bring some camfire, or alcohol, or hartshorn, or Pond's Extract, or something for her to smell.' 'Yes, yes; but where are they ?' Mrs.Peterkin moaned, still flopping around, as her husband had expressed it, while Tom rang the bell and summoned the maid, to whom he gave directions.
'Bring some camphor or hartshorn,' he said.