"Here she is, poor dear," she said with alacrity, unfastening a locket suspended to her chain.
"How strange! how like her! only older, and more careworn. Sarah, I have seen a face like this three or four times on the other side of the water; the face, too, strange to say, haunted me; a nice, good face, rather than pretty; but if the careworn, troubled look was gone it would have been pretty. Yes, the same features; small, pale, and regular."
"And with fair hair and slight figure?" cried Sarah, clasping her hands.
"Yes," but with the restlessness of the invalid he changed the subject, saying:
"You and your husband are going to America, you say. I am going, too; when I get well. You might meet me there, if you can't wait for me," he said, wearily; "and, yes, there is something else I must hasten to say before those people return. I have received no letters since my arrival, only a few newspapers; here they are. I love them because they come from dear Toronto," he said, in nervous haste, taking from beneath his pillow a copy of the Mail, two of Grip, with a Globe.
"Letters were here to meet you, sir?"
"Then the sneaks have read and kept them," he cried, angrily.
"Perhaps I should not have told you, sir; but I don't like you to think your friends have forgotten you."
"You do me no harm, Sarah, by your eye-openers. Wrath is a good tonic; tell me if you know what postmark was on them."
"Here are some envelopes I picked up from the grate the morning they sent me away."