Thus passed three more miserable hours; then the clang of the iron gate at the foot of the avenue fell on her aching ear; the tramp of horses' hoofs and roll of wheels came up the gravelled walk.
The carriage stopped; Judge Harris and his wife came up the steps, followed slowly by Andrew, whose hat was slouched over his eyes. As they approached Irene put out her hands wistfully.
"We have won a glorious victory, Irene, but many of our noble soldiers are wounded. I knew you would be anxious, and we came——"
"Is my father killed!"
"Your father was wounded. He led a splendid charge."
"Wounded! No! he is killed! Andrew, tell me the truth—is father dead?"
The faithful negro could no longer repress his grief, and sobbed convulsively, unable to reply.
"Oh, my God! I knew it!" she gasped.
The gleaming arms were thrown up despairingly, and a low, dreary cry wailed through the stately old mansion as the orphan turned her eyes upon Nellie and Andrew—the devoted two who had petted her from childhood.
Judge Harris led her into the library, and his weeping wife endeavoured to offer consolation, but she stood rigid and tearless, holding out her hand for the despatch. Finally they gave it to her and she read:—