ll. Stunned, I reckon. I see no blood, except about the face.
Well dressed. What's he doing here?" The doctor said so as he felt the
pulse. He carefully turned the body over, examined it every where, looked
earnestly at the face, around which the matted hair clustered heavily:

"He has gone upon his long journey!" said the young doctor, in a low,
solemn tone, still looking at the face with an emotion of sad sympathy,
for it was a face that had been very handsome; and it was a young man,
like himself. The city bells clanged three.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Nobody knew.

"Look at his handkerchief."

They found it, and handed it to the young doctor. He unrolled it, holding
it smooth in his hands; suddenly his face turned pale; the tears burst
into his eyes. A curious throng of recollections and emotions overpowered
him. His heart ached as he leaned over the body; and laying the matted
hair away, he looked long and earnestly into the face. In that dim moment
in the liquor-shop, by that bruised body, how much he saw! A play-ground
loud with boys--wide-branching elms--a country church--a placid pond. He
heard voices, and summer hymns, and evening echoes; and all the images
and sounds were soft, and pensive, and remote.

The doctor's name was Greenidge--James Greenidge, and he had known Abel
Newt at school.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII.

WAITING.

The woman Abel had left sat quivering and appalled. Every sound started
her; every moment she heard him coming. Rocking to and fro in the lonely
room, she dropped into sudden sleep--saw him--started up--cried, "How
could you stay so?" then sat broad awake, and knew that she had dozed but
for a moment, and that she was alone.

"Abel, Abel!" she moaned, in yearning agony. "But he kissed me before he
went," she thought, wildly--"he kissed me--he kissed me!"

Lulled for a moment by the remembrance, she sank into another brief
nap--saw him as she had seen him in his gallant days, and heard him say,
I love you. "How could you stay so?" she cried, dreaming--started--sprang
up erect, with her head turned in intense listening. There was a sound
this time; yes, across the river she heard the solemn city bells strike
three.

Wearily pacing the room--stealthily, that she might make no
noise--walking the hours away, the lonely woman waited for her lover.
The winter, wind rose and wailed about the windows and moaned in the
chimney, and in long, shrieking sobs died away.

"Abel! Abel!"