“Yes, perhaps it would be as well.”
The doctor drew forth a cigar, which he lighted.
“Now we are on equal terms,” observed Shearman, with a laugh.
“Confound the man!” muttered the doctor. “When is he going to begin?”
He had not long to wait.
“You see, doctor, I must take you over to the United States, for that’s where great part, and, I may say, the most important part, of the events I have to describe took place.”
“Oh, indeed. In the United States, eh?”
“Ye-es,” drawled the American. “Wall, some years ago there resided at Baltimore a gentleman of the name of Leaven.”
The doctor started, and gasped out—“Yes. Well, what of him?”
“He was a planter, tolerably well to do. He had a daughter, whose baptismal name was Clara. She was a wild, hair-brained, giddy little flirt, I’ve been told, but that’s not much to the purpose. Mr. Leaven had the misfortune to lose his wife before his daughter Clara was fifteen years of age, and, as a matter of course, the loss was a severe one, as far as the gal herself was concerned, for she was deprived of a mother’s care just at the time when she most needed it. However, misfortunes of this kind are inevitable, and cannot be averted. In addition to his daughter, the planter had two sons, who were, however, younger than the gal. They were a little wayward and self-willed. But the planter loved his children so much that he was blind to their faults or foibles—for to speak the truth, if I am to judge from what I’ve been told, neither the boys nor the gal had anything much the matter with them—certainly nothing very serious; but you follow me, I hope,” suddenly ejaculated Shearman.