'It is only a report,' faltered Agatha.
'I know it is true,' said Clare steadily; and then she passed Agatha by, and went up to her room.
She locked her door, and seated herself in an easy chair by her window with the calmness of despair.
'He is dead, he is murdered, and he will never come back! I shall never see him again, and my life is at an end with his!'
These thoughts burnt themselves into her brain.
She leant out of her window, and gazed over the sunny meadows, noticing the smoke appearing from Patty's chimney, and a flock of swallows flying through it. Then she watched the motions of a frisky colt in the next field, and wondered if life seemed one long bright holiday to him.
And then crushing her roses up in one hand, she flung them out of the window.
'What are roses and sunshine to me now?' she thought passionately, her whole soul swelling in protest at the black cloud enveloping her. 'What a bitter mockery this peaceful scenery is, when one remembers the awful fate that has fallen on Hugh and me!'
And then bending her head in her arms, she laid them on the low window-sill, and sobs began to come that shook her from head to foot. Dry, tearless sobs they were at first, and she got up and paced her room in hot rebellion.
'It is cruel—cruel of God! He does not care! He might have let me have him back, when I was trying to be a true Christian! Such an awful death! Oh, Hugh, Hugh! my heart is broken!'