He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. The doctor drew out the contents hopefully. “What happened then?” Michelle asked fearfully.
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