Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. McClintock will be tuning up the piano to-day. It would be an ice storm by midnight if it did not let up. He knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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