Their
trial and sentence were condensed into so seemingly brief a space.
But Bill Reynolds neither dealt in nor appreciated such refinements upon
the good old ways of communicating sentiments.
"Good-evening, Miss Valeyon," exclaimed he. "I guess we didn't expect to
see one another again to-night. Pray don't imagine, miss, that I bear
you any grudge. At times like this personal considerations don't
count--not with me. I'll shake hands with you, Miss Valeyon, first
chance I get, and we'll be just as much friends as ever we was before.
That's the right way, I guess."
The door of the guest-chamber stood open, and the sleigh-robe, with its
burden, was laid upon the bed whereon Bressant had spent so many weary
days. Then the voice of the professor, who had been awakened by the
noise and the sound of feet, was heard from the top of the stairs,
demanding to know what was the matter.
"Come down," said Bressant, stepping to the guest-chamber door. "Be
quick!"
He spoke more slowly and deeply than was his wont. In spite--or perhaps
in consequence--of his abasement, forlornness, and unworthiness, he
showed a dignity and impressiveness which were novel in him. The
boyishness, vivacity, and motion, had quite vanished. There were a depth
and hollowness in his eyes which gave a singular power to his face.
Pages:
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366