Not a breath was drawn. "If any one's to blame, it's me. "Who knows but this key may open a golden lock one of these days?" And, picking it up, he thrust it into his pocket. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. He was bewildered. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. 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. She calmed herself, breathing deeply.
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