Tales and Novels, vol 1 | Page 6

happened to come
in, and carelessly asked him if he had been looking in the presses; to
which question Archibald, though with scarcely any motive for telling
a falsehood, immediately replied in the negative. As the doctor turned
his head, Archibald put aside a bottle, which he had just before taken
out of the press; and, fearing that the noise of replacing the glass
stopper would betray him, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. How
much useless cunning! All this transaction was now fully present to
Archibald's memory: and he was well convinced that Henry had not
seen the bottle when he afterwards went to lock the presses; that the cat
had thrown it down; and that this was the cause of all the yelling that
disturbed the house. Archibald, however, kept his lips fast closed; he
had told one falsehood; he dreaded to have it discovered; and he hoped
the blame of the whole affair would rest upon Forester. At length the
animal flew with diminished fury at the door; its screams became
feebler and feebler, till, at last, they totally ceased. There was silence:
Dr. Campbell opened the door: the cat was seen stretched upon the
ground, apparently lifeless. As Forester looked nearer at the poor
animal, he saw a twitching motion in one of its hind legs; Dr. Campbell
said, that it was the convulsion of death. Forester was just going to lift
up his cat, when his friend Henry stopped his hand, telling him, that he
would burn himself, if he touched it. The hair and flesh of the cat on
one side were burnt away, quite to the bone. Henry pointed to the
broken bottle, which, he said, had contained vitriolic acid.
Henry in vain attempted to discover by whom the bottle of vitriolic acid
had been taken out of its place. Suspicion naturally fell upon Forester,
who, by his own account, was the last person in the room before the
presses had been locked for the night. Forester, in warm terms, asserted,
that he knew nothing of the matter. Dr. Campbell coolly observed, that
Forester ought not to be surprised at being suspected upon this occasion;
because every body had the greatest reason to suspect the person,
whom they had detected in one _practical joke,_ of planning another.
"Joke!" said Forester, looking down upon his lifeless favourite; "do you
think me capable of such cruelty? Do you doubt my truth?" exclaimed
Forester, haughtily. "You are unjust. Turn me out of your house this
instant. I do not desire your protection, if I have forfeited your esteem."
"Go to bed for to-night in my house," said Dr. Campbell; "moderate

your enthusiasm, and reflect coolly upon what has passed."
Dr. Campbell, as Forester indignantly withdrew, said, with a
benevolent smile, as he looked after him, "He wants nothing but a little
common sense. Henry, you must give him a little of yours."
In the morning, Forester first went to inquire how the dancing-master
had slept, and then knocked impatiently at Dr. Campbell's door.
"My father is not awake," said Henry; but Forester marched directly up
to the side of the bed, and, drawing back the curtain with no gentle
hand, cried, with a loud voice, "Dr. Campbell, I am come to beg your
pardon. I was angry when I said you were unjust."
"And I was asleep when you begged my pardon," said Dr. Campbell,
rubbing his eyes.
"The dancing-master's ankle is a great deal better; and I have buried the
poor cat," pursued Forester: "and I hope now, doctor, you'll at least tell
me, that you do not really suspect me of any hand in her death."
"Pray let me go to sleep," said Dr. Campbell, "and time your
explanations a little better."

THE GERANIUM.
The dancing-master gradually recovered from his sprain; and Forester
spent all his pocket-money in buying a new violin for him, as his had
been broken in his fall; his watch had likewise been broken against the
stone steps. Though Forester looked upon a watch as a useless bauble,
yet he determined to get this mended; and his friend Henry went with
him for this purpose to a watchmaker's.
Whilst Henry Campbell and Forester were consulting with the
watchmaker upon the internal state of the bruised watch, Archibald
Mackenzie, who followed them for a lounge, was looking over some
new watches, and ardently wished for the finest that he saw. As he was
playing with this fine watch, the watchmaker begged that he would take
care not to break it.
Archibald, in the insolent tone in which he was used to speak to a
tradesman, replied, that if he did break it, he hoped he was able to pay
for it. The watchmaker civilly answered, "he had no doubt of