“Ah,” he argued to himself, “life and all that is worth living for—all passing away.”
Chapter Three.
In doleful dump.
“Beg pardon, sir.”
Jack raised his head wearily from where it was resting upon his hand by the fireside, and looked dreamingly at the footman who had entered the warm library next morning.
“Head ache, sir?” said the man respectfully; and the well-built, fair, freckled-faced, but good-looking fellow gazed commiseratingly at his young master.
“My head ache, Edward? Yes, sadly, sadly.”
“Begging your pardon, sir; it’s because you sit over the fire too much.”