Physicians from everywhere under the sun, who have proved the fickleness of hyoscyamus, of hops, of Dover’s powders, of opium, of morphine, of laudanum, of hidden virtues of herbs of the field, and minerals from the rock, and gases from the air; who know the secrets of all the pitying earth, and, behold, it is vanity of vanities, shall line their hospitals, cram their offices, stuff their bottles, with the new universal panacea and blessing to suffering humanity.

And Keturah can keep a resolution.

Her literary occupation disposed of, in the summary manner referred to, she runs through the roll of her reserve force, and their name is Legion.  She composes herself, in an attitude of rest, with a handkerchief tied over her eyes to keep them shut, blows her lamp out instead of screwing it out, strangles awhile in the gas, and begins to repeat her alphabet, which, owing to like stern necessity, she has fortunately never forgotten.  She says it forward; she says it backward; she begins at the middle and goes up; she begins at the middle and goes down; she rattles it through in French, she groans it through in German, she falters it through in Greek.  She attempts the numeration-table, flounders somewhere in the quadrillions, and forgets where she left off.  She watches an interminable flock of sheep jump over a wall till her head spins.  There always seem to be so many more where the last one came from.  She listens to oar-beats, and drum-beats, and heart-beats.  She improvises sonatas and gallopades, oratorios and mazourkas.  She perpetrates the title and first line of an epic poem, goes through the alphabet for a rhyme, and none appearing, she repeats the first line by way of encouragement.  But all in vain.

With a silence that speaks unspeakable things, she rises solemnly, and seeks the pantry in darkness that may be felt.  At the bottom of the stairs she steps with her whole weight flat upon something that squirms, and is warm, and turns over, and utters a cry that makes night hideous.  O, nothing but the cat, that is all!  The pantry proves to be well stocked with bread, but not another mortal thing.  Now, if there is anything Keturah particularly dislikes, it is dry bread.  Accordingly, with a remark which is intended for Love’s ear alone, she gropes her way to the cellar door, which is unexpectedly open, pitches head-first into the cavity, and makes the descent of half the stairs in an easy and graceful manner, chiefly with her elbows.  She reaches the ground after an interval, steps splash into a pool of water, knocks over a mop, and embraces a tall cider barrel with her groping arms.  After a little wandering about among ash-bins and apple-bins, reservoirs and coal-heaps and cobwebs, she discovers the hanging-shelf which has been the ignis fatuus of her search.  Something extremely cold crossing her shoeless feet at this crisis suggests pleasant fancies of a rat.  Keturah is ashamed to confess that she has never in all the days of the years of her pilgrimage set eyes upon a rat.  Depending solely upon her imagination, her conception of that animal is a cross between an alligator and a jaguar.  She stands her ground manfully, however, and is happy to state that she did not faint.