Mary turned toward the cupboard; she placed the cold supper on another plate, and bringing it forth, spread a clean cloth upon the table, and placed a knife and fork.
"Come," she said, bending over the sorrow-stricken child. "Isabel, dear, get up, and try if you can eat this—it will give you strength."
The child arose, put back the dishevelled hair that had fallen over her face, and sat down by the table. She took up the knife and fork, but as her heavy eyes fell upon the contents of the plate, she laid them down again.
"Oh! Mary, I mustn't eat that; he may come home yet, and what shall we have to give him?"
Again the lame boy and Mary exchanged glances—both were pale, and the soft eyes of the boy glistened, with coming tears. He beckoned Mary to him, and whispered—
"Tell her now—she must know; if those men come back while she is hoping on, it will kill her."
Mary stood for a moment, mustering strength for this new trial; then she crept slowly up to Isabel, and laid her thin arm around the child's neck. That little arm shook, and the low speech of Mary Fuller trembled more painfully still.
"Isabel, your father will never want food again—they have brought him home—he is lying in there."
"Asleep!" said Isabel, starting to her feet, while a flash of wild joy came to her face.
"No, Isabel, he is dead!"