"The WHAT?"
The poor little sparrow dropped from Dr. Sharpe's hand. He took a step backward, scanned our faces, sat down dizzily, and fell over upon the sand.
He is a man of good nerves and great self-possession, but he fell like a woman, and lay like the dead.
"It's no place for him," Hansom said, softly. "Get him home. Me and the neighbors can do the rest. Get him home, and put his baby into his arms, and shet the door, and go about your business."
I had left him in the dark on the office floor at last. Miss Dallas and
I sat in the cold parlor and looked at each other.
The fire was low and the lamp dull. The rain beat in an uncanny way upon the windows. I never like to hear the rain upon the windows. I liked it less than usual that night, and was just trying to brighten the fire a little, when the front door blew open.
"Shut it, please," said I, between the jerks of my poker.
But Miss Dallas looked over her shoulder and shivered.
"Just look at that latch!" I looked at that latch.
It rose and fell in a feeble fluttering way,—was still for a minute,—rose and fell again.