"He wanted to take my life--until my good
angel interfered and saved me. Now does he want to break me financially?
By Jove! they're coming near to doing it among them. I shall have to go
to Moss to-morrow for another L250. Well, what does it matter? The luck
must turn some time. If it doesn't?--if it doesn't?--then there may come
the trip before the mast, as the final panacea, according to Maurice.
Australia?--there would be freedom there, and perhaps forgetfulness."
As he was passing into his bedroom he chanced to observe a package that
was lying on a chair, and for a second he glanced at the handwriting of
the address. It was Miss Burgoyne's. What could she want with him now?
He cut the string, and opened the parcel; behold, here was the
brown-and-scarlet woollen vest that she had knitted for him with her own
fair hands. Why these impatiently down-drawn brows? A true lover would
have passionately kissed this tender token of affection, and bethought
him of all the hours and half-hours and quarters of an hour during which
she had been employed in her pretty task, no doubt thinking of him all
the time. Alas! the love-gift was almost angrily thrown on to the chair
again--and he went into his own room.
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