“Hold your tongue, lad—not a word! Good-night, Mrs Bolter. Doctor, old friend, if you don’t take me up to Perowne’s, and prescribe pipes and a glass o’ whuskee, I shall sit down and cry like a child.”
He was already at the door, and the doctor followed him out, leaving Hilton, as he afterwards told his old companion, not knowing whether he was awake or in a dream.
But he was awake decidedly, as Mrs Bolter could have told, for dream-kisses never sound so loud as those which he printed on the lips of his future wife.
“Oh, it’s all right!” said Chumbley; “and I wish you joy! I knew the little lassie loved you months ago!”
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.
For Another Search.
“By Jove, we’ve forgotten all about the parson!” exclaimed Chumbley. “What’s become of him?”