With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had.
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