How My Dear Lady Was Lost To Me

I might tell how, when my black moods took me, the mere sight of her, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, nay her very nearness was enough to dispel them.

I might paint to your imagination the way her hair curled at her temples, the trick she had of biting her nether lip when at all put out, of the jut of her pretty chin when angered. Then the sweet, vibrant softness of her voice, her laughter, the wonder of her changing moods--all these I would dilate upon if I might, since 'tis joy to me, but lest I prove wearisome I will hasten on to the finding of Black Bartlemy's Treasure, of all that led up to it and all those evils that followed after it. And this bringeth me to a time whenas we sat, she and I, eating our breakfast and the world all radiant with a young sun.

"To-night," says she, "if my calculations be right, should be a new moon. And I am glad, for I do love the moon."

"Aye, but how should you judge this?" says I, wondering.

"Because I have kept a record, Martin. A stroke for each day and a cross for every Sunday."

"Excellent!" quoth I. "Then you will know how long we have lived here?"

"Two months and five days, Martin."

"So long a time?" says I amazed.

"Hath it seemed so very long?" she questioned.