consulted as to my preferences in the matter of food, and I am frank to say I never fared better. But this was the calm before the storm. I had retired to my den, one morning, determined to commence the novel which I had long had in mind, and was scrupulously pointing a half-dozen pencils, when I was interrupted by the sound of some one knocking. It was Galvin.
I should no more have suspected Galvin of venturing to knock at a door than of presuming to discharge a howitzer; but Galvin it was, and, it required but a glance to show me, a very different Galvin from that to which I had become accustomed. She was the picture of chastened resignation. Submission to unmerited adversity shone meekly in her eyes. The humility of the early martyrs was in the droop of her lips.
“Well, Galvin?” said I.
At once the flood-gates of her speech were opened.
