CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
The professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking thevery picture of dismay. Two letters lie before him; one is in his hand,the other is on the table-cloth. Both are open; but of one, the openinglines—that tell of the death of his old friend—are all he has read;whereas he has read the other from start to finish, already three times.It is from the old friend himself, written a week before his death, andvery urgent and very pleading. The professor has mastered its contentswith ever-increasing consternation.
Indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that hisface—(the index of that excellent part of him)—has, for the moment,undergone a complete change. Any ordinary acquaintance now entering theprofessor's rooms (and those acquaintances might be whittled down toquite a little few), would hardly have known him. For the abstractionthat, as a rule, characterizes his features—the way he has of lookingat you, as if he doesn't see you, that harasses the simple, and enragesthe others—is all gone! Not a trace of it remains. It has given placeto terror, open and unrestrained.
"A girl!" murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. Andthen again, in a louder tone of dismay—"A girl!" He pauses again, andnow again gives way to the fear that is destroying him—"A growngirl!"
After this, he seems too overcome to continue his reflections, so goesback to the fatal letter. Every now and then, a groan escapes him,mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in his hand—
"Poor old Wynter! Gone at last!" staring at the shaking signature at theend of the letter that speaks so plainly of the coming icy clutch thatshould prevent the poor hand from forming ever again even such sadlyerratic characters as these. "At least," glancing at the half-readletter on the cloth—"this tells me so. His solicitor's, I suppose.Though what Wynter could wa