"Will you go in?"
"No, no," cried Mr. Weston, "we will sit here; the night is very beautiful. Rowe, do you believe in omens?"
"Has any serious one ever occurred to you?"
"None, in my remembrance."
"Were you not telling me of poor Philip's death some time to-night?"
"Yes," replied Gideon Rowe, with a heavy sigh.
"How did he die? What was the cause of his death?"
"Poor lad! he died by fire. It is a dreadful story."
The father's voice was shaken by grief.
"If it will not distress you too much to tell me," said Mr. Weston, taking Gideon Rowe's hand, "I should like to hear more about him. Do not think me unkind, but I am in a strange mood. I feel like a child. What o'clock is it?"