madame." Crossing to the pistol bracket, she took the little weapon in her hand, and picking up one of the cartridges left by its careless owner, loaded it carefully. Having done this she placed the weapon in her pocket. She paced to and fro, to and fro; nothing would have been harder for her than to remain quiet then. Her eyes wandered often to the tiny bronze clock on the marble above the grate. Ten minutes; her letter was delivered, was being answered perhaps;—fifteen; how slowly the moments were going!—twenty; what if he should return, too soon? Instinctively she placed her hand upon the pocket holding the little pistol. Twenty-five minutes; what if her messenger should fail her?[86] And that card had clearly stated "office hours three to five." Twenty-six; oh, how slow, how slow!—twenty-seven; had the clock stopped? no;—twenty-eight—nine—half an hour. [86] Where was Henry? She felt a giddiness creeping over her; how close the air was. Her nerves were at their utmost tension; another strain upon the sharply strung chords would overcome her. She felt this vaguely. If she should be baffled now! She could take fresh heart, could nerve herself anew, if aid came to her, but if he should come she feared, in her now half frenzied condition, to be alone, she was so strangely nervous, so weak! How plainly she saw it, the face of Clarence Vaughan. Oh, it was a good face! When she saw it again she could rest. She had not felt it before, but she did need rest sorely. Thirty-five minutes,—oh, they had been hours to her; weary, weary time! How many a sad watcher has reckoned the flying moments as creeping hours, while sitting lonely, with heavy eyes, trembling frame, and heart almost bursting with its weight of suspense—waiting. Forty minutes—and a footstep in the passage! Her heart almost stopped beating. It was Henry. "I had to wait, as he was busy with a patient," said he, apologetically, handing her the letter she desired. Madeline tore open the missive with eager fingers, and read: Miss Madeline W.:
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