“There’s a man here.”

He did not say dead, or drunk; but his tone said every thing.

One of them ran to the next doctor, and returned with him after a little while.  Meanwhile the others had raised the body.  It was yet warm.  They laid it upon the bench.

“Warm still.  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!” she whispered, and started at the strangeness of her voice.  She opened the window softly and looked out.  The night was cold and, calm again, and the keen stars twinkled.  She saw nothing—­she heard no sound.