He would gladly have restored happiness both to Earle and her if he could have done so, even to the sacrificing of his own life, but he could not—each must bear his own burden. It seemed as if they had been beset on every hand with troubles during the past few years, fulfilling those words of Shakespeare’s:
“When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.”
“Earle has had an adventure. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked, when at length she had apparently grown quite calm, and intuitively knowing that she would like to hear more.
“If you please.”
“There has been an attempt made to rob Wycliffe, and but for his calmness and bravery great mischief would have been done.”
“Ah! he was always brave; but—but I hope he was not injured,” Editha cried, a feeling of faintness stealing over her.
“Bless you, no; else he would not now be talking of a change. He not only prevented a robbery and protected himself, but he has captured the robber.”
“I am sure that is good news,” she said, now deeply interested.
“And, Editha, who do you suppose the robber proved to be?”