Volume Three—Chapter Four.
Wimble Seizes the Clue.
“Love is blind,” said Michael Wimble, with a piteous sigh. “Yes, love is blind.”
He had been a great many times past Mrs Sarson’s cottage, always with a stern determination in his breast to treat her with distance and resentment, as one who shunned him for the sake of her lodger; but so surely as he caught a glimpse of the pleasant lady at door or window, his heart softened, and he knew that if she would only turn to him, there was forgiveness for her and more.
Upon the morning in question he had had his constitutional, and found a splendid specimen of an auk washed up, quite fresh, which he meant to stuff and add to his museum.
An hour later a neat little servant-maid came to the door with a parcel and a letter.
“With missus’s compliments.”
Wimble took the letter and parcel, his hands trembling and a mist coming before his eyes, for it was Mrs Sarson’s little maid.