“It is now the second day,” she muttered, “since that eventful night, and yet no relief from this awful suspense. No word to cheer, or lead me to hope that Dorothy lives.”
“It is no use grieving so much, Constance,” broke in Hazel, who had just entered the room. “Dorothy may be safe with her father, somewhere. Try, dear, to think so, anyway. It is much the best.”
“I cannot put away that winsome face from my mind, Hazel. Something tells me that I shall see her no more,” and tears came into her eyes, despite her efforts to restrain them.
“There, yees be at it again, sure mam, yees do be makin’ us all feel miserable.”
It was Smith who spoke, in a soft, appealing voice, full of sympathy and tenderness, the common heritage of his race. He had entered the room by the parlor door, and stood with his hat in his hand—a short, thick-set man, with a full, smooth-shaven, ruddy face, strong in its lines of “true to a trust.” His thin hair was tinged with gray. He wore a black frock coat that had seen considerable wear; in fact, that style of a coat was worn by him for the double purpose of partly concealing the “humiliating” curves of his short bent legs, and also the dignity he fancied it lent to his stature. He had been the family coachman for some years, and was familiarly called “Smith.”
As Constance turned to him, he continued with a look suggestive of tearful sympathy.
“Will yees try to forget the trouble, and be the token av it, may it plaise ye mam, just wipe away that tear, do, dear.”
“You have always been a good soul, Smith,” and Constance tried to smile through her tears.
“Of course, but we are anxious to know the result of your search,” remarked Hazel.
He was silent for a moment, and nervously commenced to fidget with his hat.