78 THE FLORAL TELEGRAPH. 
advantage when he wooes with his nose 
buried in a bread-poultice, though 
you were to put a gold fringe to the 
black silk case that covers it—believe 
me, he does.” 
“ I do believe you, madam,” said 
I, instinctively putting my hand to 
my own. 
“ Yes, I think I spoilt his wooing. 
When the tumour was subsiding, I 
went and collected, from the miller’s 
stagnant pond, volumes of dank air 
and marsh-miasma, and, as he slept, 
discharged them, through the crevices 
of his bed-chamber doors and win¬ 
dows, full upon his face : and, the 
next morning, it was swollen like a 
