The door closed behind them. I meditated
a space, and when I looked up, there was Lovell Barlow's pale face
peering into the room.
"Ahem--Miss Hungerford!" he murmured, in awful accents: "Miss
Hungerford!"
Could it be some telegram from my home thus mysteriously arrived? The
thought flashed through my mind before reason could act.
"What is it?" I gasped, hastening to meet the informer.
Lovell Barlow handed me a picture; it was a small daguerreotype, in which
the mild and beneficent features of that worthy being himself shone above
his own unmistakable spade-shaped whiskers.
"Would you like it, Miss Hungerford?" said he, still with the same deeply
impressive air; "would you, now, really, Miss Hungerford? would you like
it, now?"
"Why, certainly," I exclaimed, with intense relief; and before I could
fully appreciate the situation, Lovell Barlow cast a cautious glance
about him, leaned his head forward, and whispered hoarsely, "I've got
some more, at home--ahem! I've got six, Miss Hungerford. Mother wants to
keep two and she's promised Aunt Marcia one; but you can have one any
time, Miss Hungerford. Ahem! ahem! _You_ can, you know.
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