” Ennison hesitated for a moment. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. The general had little doubt he was going to be asked to provide for the fellow as well as for his legitimate descendant. Would you mind drawing them back?” Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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