From eight o'clock Saturday night, till twelve o'clock
Sunday noon, was sixteen hours, and in sixteen hours he must travel, on
foot, and through the snow, seventy-five miles of unknown roads.
"Four and a half miles an hour, and nothing to eat since breakfast,"
said Bressant to himself. He took his hand from his eyes, and passed it
down his face to his beard, which he twisted and turned unmercifully.
"It's lucky it isn't any more," remarked he, philosophically.
In the course of half an hour or so, the straight-mouthed gentleman,
having finished the last column of his paper, folded it up into the
smallest possible compass, and handed it politely to Bressant. The
latter accepted it abstractedly, and, opening one fold, read the first
paragraph which presented itself, his interest increasing as he
proceeded. It was in the column of latest local news, and, after
bewailing, in choice language, the frightful prevalence, even among the
highest aristocracy, of opium-eating and kindred indulgences, it went on
to particularize the sad case of an esteemed lady, of great wealth and
high connections, widow of a scion of one of our oldest families, who,
having unwisely yielded herself, during many years past, to an
inordinate use of morphine, as an antidote to nervous disorder, had, on
the previous evening, in a temporary paroxysm of madness, succeeded in
taking her own life.
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