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One of the copies I inclosed in my letter to Mr. Playmore. The other I laid by me, on my bedside table, when I went to rest. Over and over again, through the long hours of the wakeful night, I read and re-read the last words which had dropped from Miserrimus Dexter's lips. Was it possible to interpret them to any useful purpose? At the very outset they seemed to set interpretation at defiance.
She prepared a liberal exchange for Dexter's coin, and then after filling the bottle put the boy's chivalry to the test. "Why, you look as if you wanted your breakfast," she said. "Have a cup of warm coffee?" Dexter's eyes brightened, and he was about to say yes.
The mice, which lived in the old cigar-box not white mice, nor those furry little sleepers given to hiding away in nooks and corners for elongated naps, but the regular grey cheese-nibblers next, after a good deal of scratching, took Dexter's attention.
The day was hot; Dexter's hand was hotter still; and though there was the deliciously cool gurgling river close at hand, with plenty of sedge, and the roots of water grasses, where it might hide and enjoy its brief span of life, it was a prisoner; and if frogs can think and know anything about the chronicles of their race, it was thinking of its approaching fate, and wondering how many of its young tadpoles would survive to be as big as its parent, and whether it was worth while after all.
"What do you know of the man of the spirit, as you call it? And, moreover, what possesses you to infer that Mr. Dexter's inner man is not as beautiful as the outer?" "The soul looks forth from the eyes, and manifests its quality in the tones of the voice," replied Jessie, a fine enthusiasm illuminating her beautiful face.
"Take hold, of him, my man," he said; "and don't let him go." Peter obeyed, getting a tight grip of Dexter's wrist. "Now, you give in," he whispered. "It's no good, for I shan't let go." "Bring him down," said Sir James sternly.
Five, ten minutes passed, and the silence was only broken by the ticking of the bronze clock on the mantelpiece. "Evelyn." The voice was so sweet, so thrilling, so mournfully pleading, that it might have wooed even stone to pity; but Mrs. Gerome merely glanced over her shoulder, and said, frigidly, "Can I in any way contribute to Miss Dexter's comfort?
Dexter's spelling was a little shaky here and there, but the letter was pretty intelligible; and, as soon as it was done, he took out his money and made a packet of it, and doubled it up, a task he had nearly finished, when he became aware that the door was partly opened, and as he guiltily thrust the packet into his pocket the door opened widely, and Maria entered, with a sharp, short cough.
And yet, what I had done, I had, so to speak, done blindfold. The merest accident might have altered the whole course of later events. I had over and over again interfered to check Ariel when she entreated the Master to "tell her a story." If she had not succeeded, in spite of my opposition, Miserrimus Dexter's last effort of memory might never have been directed to the tragedy at Gleninch.
Every house and shop they passed was familiar. There were several of the tradespeople too standing at their doors ready to salute the doctor, and Dexter's cheeks burned with shame. His punishment seemed more than he could bear.
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