Not one quarter of a minute had elapsed since Rollings answer, 'At least seventy thousand dollars,' yet behold how much had rushed through my heated brain! I turned, for I felt a soft hand on my arm: it was my wife.
'Charles, what is it?'
'At present nothing, only I must step out for a few moments with Rollins.'
'Papa, papa, where are you going? Come back! You are always running away!'
[A WINTER SCENE.]
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
It is a morn in winter,
The air is white with snow;
And on the chinar branches
Jasmins seem to grow.
The furrowed fields and hill-tops
With icy treasures shine,
Like scales of silver fishes,
Or jewels in a mine.