aint much use to gittin'
hisse'f hurt. All de time I was helpin' him to go to bed he was a
growlin' like de bery debbil."

CHAPTER XX.

Although October in Southern Virginia can generally be counted upon as a
very charming month, it must not be expected that her face will wear one
continuous smile. On the day after Lawrence Croft's misadventure the sky
was gray with low-hanging clouds, there was a disagreeable wind from the
north-east, and the air was filled with the slight drizzle of rain. The
morning was so cool that Lawrence was obliged to keep his door shut, and
Uncle Isham had made him a small wood fire on the hearth. As he sat
before this fire, after breakfast, his foot still upon a stool, and
vigorously puffed at a cigar, he said to himself that it mattered very
little to him whether the sun shone, or all the rains of heaven
descended, so long as Roberta March would not come out to him; and that
she did not intend to come, rain or shine, was just as plain as the
marks on the sides of the fireplace, probably made by the heels of Mr
Junius Keswick during many a long, reflective smoke.

On second thoughts, however, Lawrence concluded that a rainy day was
worse for his prospects than a bright one. If the sun shone, and
everything was fair, Miss March might come across the grassy yard and
might possibly stop before his open door to bid him good morning, and to
tell him that she was sorry that a headache had prevented her from
coming to play whist the evening before. But this last, he presently
admitted, was rather too much to expect, for he did not think she was
subject to headaches, or to making excuses. At any rate he might have
caught sight of her, and if he had, he certainly would have called to
her, and would have had his say with her, even had she persisted in
standing six feet from the door-step. But now this dreary day had shut
his door and put an interdict upon strolls across the grass. Therefore
it was that he must resign any opportunity, for that day, at least, of
soothing the harrowing perturbations of his passion by either the
comforting warmth of hope, or by the deadening frigidity of a
consummated despair. This last, in truth, he did not expect, but still,
if it came, it would be better than perturbations; they must be soothed
at any cost. But how to incur this cost was a difficult question
altogether. So, puffing, gazing into the fire, and knitting his brows,
he sat and thought.

As a goo