“Have you a copy of the book, Miss Evans?” asked Mrs. Rowe, as the boys were walking away unobserved.
“Not one line, Mrs. Rowe. My father, by mistake, destroyed the rough draft when he was burning up old papers.”
“I pity you with all my heart, dear friend,” said Mrs. Rowe, deeply moved. “But don’t be discouraged. It is too dark to look longer now, but we will come back to-morrow.”
“O Mrs. Rowe, if I had only listened to you, and sent it by express!” wailed Miss Evans. “But I had too much sentiment. That book was my father’s life-work, and I couldn’t bear to trust it out of my sight.”
“I’m very sorry for you, Miss Evans,” observed Captain Bradstreet, adding mentally, “sorry, too, that you should have been so foolish.”
“It is too dreadful!” The young lady could no longer restrain her tears. “O Captain Bradstreet, to think that the precious manuscript should have been lost by me, papa’s own daughter!”
“I’ve found it!”
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“Miss Evans had failed to make satisfactory arrangement for bringing out the book in Paris, Captain Bradstreet,” explained Mrs. Rowe. “Consequently, she was taking it to publishers in London.”