He took a step into the room, but did not speak.
"Nelson Thrasher!" she almost shrieked. "If you are a living soul, speak. Where is my husband?"
The man recoiled a step, and well he might. The question came on him so suddenly, it might have startled the boldest man on earth. It absolutely seemed to terrify him. He stood a moment staring at her, then answered in a low, hoarse voice:
"I come to tell you about him."
The little girl caught the meaning of his words, rose up and seizing his hand between both her dimpled palms cried out:
"He comes to tell about pa! Oh, please sir, where is he? Why don't he come home?"
Thrasher looked down in her face, and met the glance of those eyes—her father's eyes. He instantly shook her hands off as if they had been vipers, and with a gesture which seemed to cast aside some terrible feeling, threw himself on a chair.
"My husband!" said Mrs. Mason. "Tell me, is he coming?—is he well?"
"Your husband, John Mason, is dead!"
"Dead! dead!" The poor woman grew faint under the suddenness of this solemn announcement, and dropped helplessly into her chair.