I cannot do it, David. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. Wood, in indignant surprise. ’ He looked the girl up and down. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required.
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