Shutting the door carefully after him, he came to the hearth, stood on it, upright and calm, for a few moments, and then asked,—
"Has Blanche gone to bed?"
"Yes," said my mother, "but not to sleep, I am sure; she made me promise to tell her when you came back."
Roland's brow relaxed.
"To-morrow, sister," said he, slowly, "will you see that she has the proper mourning made for her? My son is dead."
"Dead!" we cried with one voice, and surrounded him with one impulse.
"Dead! impossible,—you could not say it so calmly. Dead,—how do you know? You may be deceived. Who told you? why do you think so?"
"I have seen his remains," said my uncle, with the same gloomy calm. "We will all mourn for him. Pisistratus, you are heir to my name now, as to your father's. Good-night; excuse me, all—all you dear and kind ones; I am worn out." Roland lighted his candle and went away, leaving us thunderstruck; but he came back again, looked round, took up his book, open in the favorite passage, nodded again, and again vanished. We looked at each other as if we had seen a ghost. Then my father rose and went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till the night was well-nigh gone! We sat up, my mother and I, till he returned. His benign face looked profoundly sad.
"How is it, sir? Can you tell us more?" My father shook his head.
"Roland prays that you may preserve the same forbearance you have shown hitherto, and never mention his son's name to him. Peace be to the living, as to the dead! Kitty, this changes our plans; we must all go to Cumberland,—we cannot leave Roland thus!"