The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. “Is there any urgency?” The doctor bent over his patient, who seemed to have fallen asleep.
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