A rush of love and tenderness came over him; this was his Maria—the dainty bride whom he had transplanted from her father’s home; he knelt beside the bed, enfolding her in his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss upon her half-parted lips. She opened wide her affrighted eyes; she struggled wildly, letting out one piercing shriek, then fainted. The half-clad servants came running into the room, finding Christopher on his knees beside the bed, chafing Maria’s hands, kissing her pale face, and fondly calling her: “My love! My little one!”
Thomas, the coachman, seized him by the shoulders; Maria regaining consciousness, began screaming again; Hannah added to the confusion by crying excitedly, “Throw him out! Call the police! The man is crazy!” Thomas obeyed the first command; he dragged Christopher down the stairs, opened the door, and kicked him out, and down the steps.
He lay there a few minutes, completely bewildered. Just as he was struggling to his feet, a policeman came along, and seeing his bewildered condition, his shoeless feet, and battered appearance, laid his hand roughly on his shoulder, and said to him: “What are you doing here?”
“This is my home. I am Christopher Hembold!” answered he.
The policeman laughed: “Oh, come off! This is the home of the Widow Hembold, all right; but you look about as much like the defunct Christopher as a yellow cur resembles a King Charles spaniel.”
Christopher tried to jerk away. “Let me alone!” he cried angrily.
“Will I?” said the burly policeman. “Where are your boots?” continued he.
“In the house, if it is any of your business,” was the surly reply.
The tumult within the house still continued; lights were carried from room to room, and flashed weirdly up and down the stairs. Thomas came hurriedly out of the door, kicking Christopher’s boots into the street as he ran down the steps.
“Hello!” says the policeman: “What’s the matter in there?”