The general drift of the sermon, even its text, have long since faded
from my mind; but I do remember that it contained so highly coloured a
peroration on the Day of Judgment and the terrors of Hell, that my
horror and distress knew no bounds; and when the sermon was ended, and
we began to sing, "From lowest depths of woe," I burst into a passion
of weeping. The remarkable part of the incident was that, the rest of
the party having sat with their noses in the air quite undistressed by
the terrible eloquence of the preacher, Aunt Maria never for a moment
guessed at the real cause of my tears. But as soon as we were all in
the carriage (it was a rainy evening, and we had driven to church),
she said--
"That poor child will never have a minute's peace while that tooth's
in his head. Thomas! Drive to Dr. Pepjohn's."
Polly did say, "Is it very bad, Regie?" But Aunt Maria answered for
me--"Can't you see it's bad, child? Leave him alone."
I was ashamed to confess the real cause of my outburst, and suffered
for my disingenuousness in Dr. Pepjohn's consulting-room.
"Show Dr. Pepjohn which it is, Regie," said my aunt; and, with tears
that had now become simply hysterical, I pointed to the tooth that had
ached.
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