It was highly sentimental, and might mean much and might mean nothing.

If the handwriting should prove to be Mr.Roberts', the probabilities were in favor of the former supposition--or so he said to himself, as he swung the clock back into place.
When Mrs.Weston returned, he was standing as patiently as possible in the middle of the room, saying over and over to himself to insure remembrance till he could jot the lines down in his notebook: _Bossberg, Lucerne....

I love but thee--and thee will I love to eternity._ His interest in this slight and doubtful clue, however, sank into insignificance when, having unlocked and unstrapped the trunk which Mrs.
Weston pointed out, he saw to his infinite satisfaction that it held Mr.
Roberts' clothing--the one thing in the world toward which at this exact moment his curiosity mainly pointed.

If only he might help her handle the heavy coats which lay so temptingly on top! Should he propose to do so?
Looking at her firm chin and steady eye, he felt that he did not dare.

To rouse the faintest suspicion in this woman's intelligent mind would be fatal to all further procedure, and so he stood indifferent, while she lifted garment after garment and laid them carefully on the bed.