Humplebee
had set eyes upon the maiden destined to be his heart's desire; she was the
daughter of a fellow-clerk, a man who had grown grey in service of the
ledger; timidly he sought to win her kindness, as yet scarce daring to
hope, dreaming only of some happy change of position which might encourage
him to speak. The girl was as timid as himself; she had a face of homely
prettiness, a mind uncultured but sympathetic; absorbed in domestic cares,
with few acquaintances, she led the simplest of lives, and would have been
all but content to live on in gentle hope for a score of years. The two
were beginning to understand each other, for their silence was more
eloquent than their speech.
One summer day--the last day of his brief holiday--Humplebee was returning
by train from a visit to his mother. Alone in a third-class carriage,
seeming to read a newspaper, but in truth dreaming of a face he hoped to
see in a few hours, he suddenly found himself jerked out of his seat, flung
violently forward, bumped on the floor, and last of all rolled into a sort
of bundle, he knew not where. Recovering from a daze, he said to himself,
'Why, this is an accident--a collision!' Then he tried to unroll himself,
and in the effort found that one of his arms was useless; more than that,
it pained him horribly.
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