principal lines told of a life without interest, of an outlook that was dull, and held no hope.
'The end of Hanna Drummond at forty-six,' she said, and put her hand suddenly to her side. 'So you would fail me so early, poor heart, and yet you have had no very heavy duty. A year . . . two years . . . to-day . . . any time . . . what did the doctor say? Does it matter? My life will flow on just as grey, just as uneventful; nothing will happen in a year, or in two years, to change its current.'
She put her bonnet on a shelf, and turned wearily to the door, as a servant entered. They discussed household matters for some minutes. When the maid had gone, Hanna Drummond seated herself in a low chair by the window. She drew to her side a little box, and from it she took a thimble, also a needle and thread. Then, drawing a coat that lay upon the back of the chair to her lap, she inspected it closely, to find two buttons missing. She turned the pockets out to look for holes, and came upon a folded railway guide.
Her eyes fell upon the gaudy illustrations of travel, the attractive advertisements—'Colorado! It is summer with us. It is winter with you.
