She had lived longer with them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less haughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally came into the drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother, so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room. They went on arranging their various articles of employment. She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something in her face--her face so full of woe, of horror. But they went on without taking any notice. She coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those coughs which asks so plainly for remark. "Dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked Amy. "Are not you well?" "Is mamma ill?" asked Sophy quickly. "Speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts to articulate choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. They clustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some terrible truth to be revealed. "My dear young ladies! my dear girls!" she gasped out at length, and then she burst into tears. "Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse!" said one. "Any-thing is better than this. Speak!" "My children! I don't know bow to break it to you. My dears, poor Mr Harry is brought home----" "Brought home-- brought home--how?" Instinctively they sank their voices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. In the same low tone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate things which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear, she answered, "Dead!" Amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to know if such a tale could be true; and when she read its confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sister sat down on an ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realize it. That was Sophy. Helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame. The nurse stood silent. She had not told all. "Tell me," said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice, which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! Is he dead, did you say?
Have you sent for a doctor? Oh! send for one, send for one," continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her feet. Helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting, towards nurse. "My dears, he is dead! But I have sent for a doctor. I have done all I could." "When did he--when did they bring him home?" asked Sophy. "Perhaps ten minutes ago. Before you rang for Parker." "How did he die? Where did they find him? He looked so well. He always seemed so strong. Oh! are you sure he is dead?" She went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her arm. "Miss Sophy, I have not told you all. Can you bear to hear it? Remember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet. Come, you must help me to tell him. Now, be quiet, dear! It was no common death he died!" She looked in her face as if trying to convey her meaning by her eyes. Sophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound. "He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner Street to-night." Sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost convulsively. "My dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father and mother have yet to be told. Speak Miss Sophy!" But she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. The nurse left the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatile and water.
Sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps. Then she spoke in a calm, unnatural voice. "What do you want me to do, nurse? Go to Helen, and poor Amy. See, they want help." "Poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. You must go to master; that's what I want you to do, Miss Sophy. You must break it to him, poor old gentleman! Come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and the men are waiting to speak to him." Sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door. "Oh! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say?" "I'll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by degrees." "I can't, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to say the wrong thing." However, she opened the door. There sat the father, the shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco of the chair.
The newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side.
