“Ulpian, why do you look so grave and grieved? Does your letter contain bad news?”
Miss Jane pushed back her spectacles and glanced anxiously at her brother, who stood with his brows slightly knitted, twirling a crumpled envelope between his fingers.
“It is not a letter, but a telegraphic dispatch, summoning me to the death-bed of my best friend, Horace Manton.”
“The man whose life you saved at Madeira?”
“Yes; and the person to whom, above all other men, I am most strongly and tenderly attached. His constitution is so feeble that I have long been uneasy about him; but the end has come even earlier than I feared.”
“Where does he live?”
“On the Hudson, a few miles above New York City. I have no time to spare, for I shall take the train that leaves at one o’clock, and must make some arrangement with Dr. Sheldon to attend my patients. Will it trouble or tire you too much to pack my valise while I write a couple of business letters? If so, I will call Salome to assist you.”
“Trouble me, indeed! Nonsense, my dear boy; of course I will pack your valise. Moreover, Salome is not at home. How long will you be absent?”
“Probably a week or ten days,—possibly longer. If poor Horace lingers, I shall remain with him.”
“Wait one moment, Ulpian. Before you go I want to speak to you about Salome.”