To drive to the Cunard company's office and make the transfer took some little time, but was not this my wedding holiday? I sighed as I again took my seat in the car at Jersey City. On this golden Monday afternoon I should have been slowly coming down the Housatonic Valley, with my dear little wife beside me. Instead, the unfamiliar train, and the fat man at my side reading a campaign newspaper, and shaking his huge sides over some broad burlesque.
The celebrated surgeon, Dr. R——, was not at home in answer to my ring on Monday evening.
"How soon will he be in? I will wait."
"He can see no patients to-night sir," said the man; "and he may not be home until midnight."
"But I am an impatient," I might have urged, when a carriage dashed up to the door. A slight little man descended, and came slowly up the steps.
"Dr. R——?" I said inquiringly.
"Yes, sir."
"Just one minute, doctor, if you please. I only want to get an address from you."
He scanned me from head to foot: "Walk into my office, young man."
I might have wondered at the brusqueness of his manner had I not caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantelshelf. Dusty and worn, and with a keen look of anxiety showing out of every feature, I should scarcely have recognized myself.