"That's it!"—eagerly. There was one letter. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. She fidgeted and looked away. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. The place, in which they stood, was a small entrance-chamber, cut off, like the segment of a circle, from the main apartment, (of which it is needless to say it originally constituted a portion,) by a stout wooden partition. How would it serve Nicholas to keep the truth from his daughter? A tiny thread of disquiet troubled him. "If I had my old tools with me, we'd soon master this obstacle," he muttered. It was the bitterest moment of her life.
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