"Yes, sir; ver' ill."
Again the voice! I took advantage of the chance to look at her intently. Her hair was turning gray, certainly; her face was seamed with lines which only care and poverty could have graven there; and yet, beneath it all, I fancied I could detect a faded but living likeness to Hiram Holladay's daughter. I looked again—it was faint, uncertain—perhaps my nerves were overwrought and were deceiving me. For how could such a likeness possibly exist?
"She has a physician, of course?" asked my companion.
"Oh, yes, sir."
"He has advised rest and quiet?"
"Yes, sir."
"When do you leave for the country?"
"To-morrow or the next day after that, I think, sir."
He turned to the door and then paused, hesitating. He opened his lips to say something more—his anxiety was clamoring for utterance—then he changed his mind and stepped outside as she held the door open.
"Good-day," he said, with stern repression. "I wish her a pleasant journey."