“The doctor has had a letter from your home,” Lieutenant Wilde went on, after a moment, with a vain attempt to assume his usual quiet manner.
Leon’s hand was on his shoulder, and he felt the boy’s fingers grow rigid, as they clutched him.
“Who is it?” he asked abruptly. “Some one is ill, I know.”
Delay was useless, and Lieutenant Wilde answered at once, feeling that it would be cruel to waste words.
“It is your father,” he said gently.
Again the boy’s thought had rushed on in advance of the words.
“He is dead,” he said excitedly.
Irving Wilde could not speak. For his only answer, he rose and put his arm around the boy. He was none too soon for with a cry,—
“Oh, Hal! Oh, daddy, daddy!” Leon reeled where he stood.
With the help of Harry, who until then had remained speechless and dazed, Lieutenant Wilde laid him gently on his bed and sat down by his side, with one hand on his, the other arm around Harry’s shoulders. There was comfort and strength in his touch; but he sat there silent, while the twilight in the room slowly changed to darkness, for he knew only too well that, as yet, no words could comfort the sorrowing hearts before him.