Mr. Stanford went on with his letter. It was in French, and he wrote very slowly and thoughtfully. He filled the four sides, ending with "Wholly thine, Reginald Stanford." Carefully he re-read, made some erasures, folded, and put it in an envelope. As he sealed the envelope, a big dog came bounding down the bank, and poked its cold, black nose inquisitively in his face.
"Ah! Tiger, mein Herr, how are you? Where is your master?"
"Here," said Doctor Frank. "Don't let me intrude. Write the address, by all means."
"As if I would put you au fait of my love letters," said Mr. Stanford, coolly putting the letter in his note-book, and the note-book in his pocket. "I thought you were off to-day?"
"No, to-morrow. I must be up and doing now; I am about tired of St. Croix and nothing to do."
"Are you ever coming back!"
"Certainly. I shall come back on the fourth of June, Heaven willing, to see you made the happiest man in creation."
"Have a cigar?" said Mr. Stanford, presenting his cigar-case. "I can recommend them. You would be the happiest man in creation in my place, wouldn't you?"
"Most decidedly. But I wasn't born, like some men I know of, with a silver spoon in my mouth. Beautiful wives drop into some men's arms, ripe and ready, but I am not one of them."
"Oh, don't despond! Your turn may come yet!"