"I am not very well versed in law," replied Mr. Develin, dodging the unexpected question; "but you know the doctor doesn't bear thwarting, and your children--in fact--" Here Mr. Develin twisted his thumbs and seemed rather at a loss. "Well, the fact is, Mrs. Hall, in the present state of your affairs, you cannot afford to refuse."
Harry's clothes were collected from the drawers, one by one, and laid upon the sofa. Now a little pencilled memorandum fluttered from the pocket; now a handkerchief dropped upon the floor, slightly odorous of cologne, or cigars; neck-ties there were, shaped by his full round throat, with the creases still in the silken folds, and there was a crimson smoking cap, Ruth's gift--the gilt tassel slightly tarnished where it had touched the moist dark locks; then his dressing-gown, which Ruth herself had often playfully thrown on, while combing her hair--each had its little history, each its tender home associations, daguerreotyping, on tortured memory, sunny pictures of the past.
"Oh, I cannot--I cannot," said Ruth, as her eye fell upon Harry's wedding-vest; "oh, Mr. Develin, I cannot."
Mr. Develin coughed, hemmed, walked to the window, drew off his gloves, and drew them on, and finally said, anxious to terminate the interview, "I can fold them up quicker than you, Mrs. Hall."
"If you please," replied Ruth, sinking into a chair; "_this_ you will leave me, Mr. Develin," pointing to the white satin vest.
"Y-e-s," said Mr. Develin, with an attempt to be facetious. "The old doctor can't use that, I suppose."
The trunk was packed, the key turned in the lock, and the porter in waiting, preceded by Mr. Develin, shouldered his burden, and followed him down stairs, and out into the street.
And there sat Ruth, with the tears dropping one after another upon the wedding vest, over which her fingers strayed caressingly. Oh, where was the heart which had throbbed so tumultuously beneath it, on that happy bridal eve? With what a dirge-like echo fell upon her tortured ear those bridal words,--"till death do us part."
"Tom Herbert, are you aware that this is the sixth spoonful of sugar you have put in that cup of tea? and what a forlorn face! I'd as lief look at a tombstone. Now look at _me_. Did you ever see such a fit as that boot? Is not my hair as smooth and as glossy as if I expected to dine with some other gentleman than my husband? Is not this jacket a miracle of shapeliness? Look what a foil you are to all this loveliness; lack-lustre eyes--mouth drawn down at the corners: you are a dose to contemplate."