“He put his hands on Bobo’s head, and——”
“Well?”
“Bobo walked home with me, that’s all.”
Kelvin got up from his chair to relight his pipe at the fire. As he moved, the door of the room opened, and a decent woman, his housekeeper, stood, with a grave face, in the entrance.
“Patsy’s dead?” said Kelvin.
“Ah, the poor mite!” answered the woman, with a burst of tears. “She passed but now, sir, at half after eight, in her little bed.”
POOR LUCY RIVERS
The following story was told to a friend—with leave, conditionally, to make it public—by a well-known physician who died last year.
I was in Paul’s type-writing exchange (says the professional narrator), seeing about some circulars I required, when a young lady came in bearing a box, the weight of which seemed to tax her strength severely. She was a very personable young woman, though looking ill, I fancied—in short, with those diathetic symptoms which point to a condition of hysteria. The manager, who had been engaged elsewhere, making towards me at the moment, I intimated to him that he should attend to the new-comer first. He turned to her.
“Now, madam?” said he.