Indeed they could. Walter knew better. Nine grains of morphia! Why, half the amount might.
Miss Rosa demands to know about Mr. Hurd, of Toledo, and is told. She laughs like a delighted child. “What a funny fellow! But tell me more about your home and your sisters, Walter. I know enough about Texas and tarantulas and cowboys.”
The theme is dear, just now, to his mood, and he lays before her the simple details of a true home; the little ties and endearments that so fill the exile’s heart. Of his sisters, one Alice furnishes him a theme he loves to dwell upon.
“She is like you, Miss Rosa,” he says. “Maybe not quite so pretty, but just as nice, and good, and—”
“There! Walter,” says Miss Rosa sharply, “now talk about something else.”
But a shadow falls upon the wall outside,
