"Miss Holladay seems very ill," said Mr. Royce, in a voice somewhat
tremulous, as she paused before us in the lower hall.
"Yes, sir; ver' ill."
Again the voice! I took advantage of the chance to look at her
intently. Her hair was turning gray, certainly; her face was seamed
with lines which only care and poverty could have graven there; and
yet, beneath it all, I fancied I could detect a faded but living
likeness to Hiram Holladay's daughter. I looked again--it was faint,
uncertain--perhaps my nerves were overwrought and were deceiving me.
For how could such a likeness possibly exist?
"She has a physician, of course?" asked my companion.
"Oh, yes, sir."
"He has advised rest and quiet?"
"Yes, sir."
"When do you leave for the country?"
"To-morrow or the next day after that, I think, sir."
He turned to the door and then paused, hesitating. He opened his lips
to say something more--his anxiety was clamoring for utterance--then
he changed his mind and stepped outside as she held the door open.
"Good-day," he said, with stern repression. "I wish her a pleasant
journey."
The door closed after us, and we went down the steps.
"Jenkinson's the family doctor," he said. "Let's drive around there,
and find out how really ill Miss Holladay is. I'm worried about her,
Lester.
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