"Upon my word, Mr. Suds," broke in Dr. Bleedem as the barber concluded his story, "if you have many more tales of that sort you'll soon rival the members of the club. What do you say, Mr. Oldstone. Was not that story worthy of a member?"
Mr. Oldstone could not go so far as to admit that any one member of the club had ever been equalled in story telling by a barber, and that, too, a Frenchified barber, but he condescended to give a complacent look of approval at the young man without directly answering the question put to him, and then addressing him said, as he pulled out his watch, "I don't know if you are aware of it, Mr. Suds, but the absorbing interest that you have forced us to take in your narrative has made us quite forget church time, and it now wants but a quarter to one o'clock."
"You don't say so," cried several voices at once. "Sure enough," said another, "here are all the people coming out of church."
"What!" cried our late story teller, in alarm, "have I really, through my talk, prevented your honours from exhibiting your chins at divine service, as a sample of my art? This is indeed a sin my soul must answer."
"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "time past cannot be recalled, all we can do is, to try to make up for it by going to church this afternoon."
"Stop! stop! Mr. Suds, whither away so fast," he cried, as he saw the young man making towards the door with his tackle in his hand. "You have not told us what became of Pauline. You finished your story rather too abruptly; it requires a sequel. Come, let's hear it."
The youth returned, after closing the door, and resting the tips of his fingers against the back of a chair, proceeded gravely thus: "Little more remains to be told, gentlemen. I heard from Pauline not long since. Her letter runs as nearly as I can recollect in these words:
"Dear Mr. Suds, I write to you for the first and last time. Perhaps I should not have written to you at all. If I have erred from maiden modesty in so doing, I hope you will excuse me. I really could not let so great a friend pass from me without a word. I heard of your escape by chance, and you may imagine my extreme delight and thankfulness at the joyful news, though I never could learn in what manner you effected it. Enough for me that you are safe in your own free country, far from the broils of civil discord and intestine misery.
"Alas! my friend, if I may be allowed to call you by that name, I have suffered much since we parted; so much, indeed, that were you to see me now, you would not know me again for the gay capricious Pauline of former times, whose eyes and complexion you were once wont to praise. Forgive me, my friend, forgive me, Mr. Suds, if I have already said too much, and bear with me still, while I yet disburden my heart of more. The words tremble on my pen, my hand refuses to write what my heart dictates, for fear of incurring your displeasure and contempt, rather than brook which I would that my hand would paralyse, that I might never touch pen more; that my lips were sealed that I might never more express the feelings that rise and crave for utterance, ay that my heart itself would cease to beat. I can no longer restrain my pen. My eyes fill with tears as I write. Pardon my temerity. I feel I must speak or die.