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      The figure had sounded apt to Anna on that Sunday evening when the Doctor employed it; apt enough--until the outburst of that great and dreadful news whose inseparable implications and forebodings robbed her of all sleep that night and made her the first one astir at daybreak. But thenceforward, and now for half a week or more, the aptness seemed quite to have passed. Strange was the theatre whose play was all and only a frightful reality; whose swarming, thundering, smoking stage had its audience, its New Orleans audience, wholly behind it, and whose curtain of distance, however thin, mocked every bodily sense and compelled all to be seen and heard by the soul's eye and ear, with all the joy and woe of its actuality and all its suspense, terror, triumph, heartbreak, and despair.

      "But where he is, that Captain Kincaid?" asked Victorine of Charlie a second time.

      Varley looked straight before him. For the first time he saw the terrible business from Traffords point of view. It looked as if indeed Esmeralda had been guilty; and yet he could not believe it. He glanced at Norman with a stern, fierce inquiry, and saw on his face a strange expression. It did not look in Varleys eyes like guilt."Misses! Mom-a say'"--he pressed into her grasp something made of broadcloth, very red and golden--"here yo' husband's cap."




      That was only slang, like Normans. I mean, that we shall have a great fuss and jollification."Doesn't the boat appear to you to tremble more than ever?" was the sole response.