Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. . Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. " "What do you want me to do?" The doctor thought this query gave hopeful promise. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. I must not let you go again. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside.
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