Draw closes. Snow-
drift at Margin Street. Shovels. Drift open. Centre of
Somerville. Apothecary's shop open. "Please, where is
Linwood Street?"
"Take your second left, cross three or four streets,
turn to the right by the water-pipe, take the third
right, go down hill by the schoolhouse and take second
left, and you come out at 11 Linwood Street."
All which Harrington does. He experiences one
continual burst of joy that his route does not take him
through these detours daily. But his professional
experience is good for him. We have no need to describe
his false turns. Even aniseed would have been useless in
that snow. At last, just as the Somerville bells ring
for nine o'clock, Harrington also rings triumphant at the
door of the little five-roomed cottage, where his lantern
has already revealed the magic number 99.
Ring! as for a gilt-edged special delivery! Door
thrown open by a solid man with curly red hair, unshaven
since Sunday, in his shirtsleeves and with kerosene lamp
in his hand.
"Are you John McLaughlin?"
"Indade I am; the same."
"And where's your sister Nora?"
The good fellow, who had been stern before, broke
down. "And indade I was saying to Ellen it's an awful
night for 'em all in the gale off the coast in the ship.
The holy Virgin and the good God take care of 'em!"
"They have taken care of them," said Harrington,
reverently.
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