No answer, but a shake of the brown locks.
“Oh, I see; he has sent for Harold. Well, dear; we knew that would have to be sometime. Don’t cry about it; but try to make Harold happy while he is here.”
“It isn’t that,” Mabel found voice to say.
“Then, what is it—what has his father done?”
“He’s died, and Harold is a Cuban orphan,” Mabel replied, with a fresh burst of tears.
“My dear, are you sure? Come, tell me about it; I don’t understand. We have not heard a word of it. Look up and tell me, child.”
Mabel managed to convey her news, though in a somewhat disjointed manner.
Mrs. Ford looked grave, and went to Harold’s door; but, receiving no answer to her gentle knock, she went in, and saw that the little fellow had flung himself across the bed, and was crying convulsively. He raised his head as Mrs. Ford entered, and came to the arms she held out to him.
She gathered him closely to her. “Don’t give up hope, dear child,” she said. “I think there may be a mistake; and, under any circumstances, you know we love you, and are glad to keep you with us.”
Mabel had crept in softly. “Oh, mamma, always?”