Each of us had had one--the Major had had three.
But where were they? Where is _yours?_ Tucked in your best-man's
pocket; deposited in his desk--or washed to a pulp in his white
waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out
of existence--can you tell where it is? Can you--unless you are one of
those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon
their drawing-room walls?
Mr. Brede's voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like
five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds:
"Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it?
I shall leave by the six o'clock train. And will you also send the
wagon for my trunks?"
"I hain't said I wanted to hev ye leave----" began Mr. Jacobus; but
Brede cut him short.
"Bring me your bill."
"But," remonstrated Jacobus, "ef ye ain't----"
"Bring me your bill!" said Mr. Brede.
* * * * *
My wife and I went out for our morning's walk. But it seemed to us,
when we looked at "our view," as if we could only see those invisible
villages of which Brede had told us--that other side of the ridges and
rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the
heights of human self-esteem.
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