‘It must be painful. Too late. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. The afternoon was her own; but from eight until midnight she sat beside the patient. In stature, he was short and stumpy; in person, corpulent; and in countenance, sleek, snub-nosed, and demure. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. “I do not blame him. This was good. ” There was a shout of laughter. " "Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that sounded!—talk! "If you want to.
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