Nellie was going to ask him a question about it; but now that the urgent need for calmness was removed her strong command over herself gave way, and throwing herself into her father's arms she wept as if her heart would break.
He did nothing to check her; only pressed her closely to him, and whispered from time to time "Poor Nellie; poor little daughter; poor little dear," over and over again.
At last the violence of her grief subsided, and she remembered her father's share in this sorrow. She raised herself, and began wiping away her tears.
"Tell me all," she said at last.
"It was a fright," answered her father, "which developed the disease which I feared existed; a shock. They were carrying little Tom downstairs, and one of his bearers slipped. It was only a stumble; but just enough to make a commotion, and to cause Tom to give a half-scream. She seemed to bear it pretty well for an hour or two, and then—" Dr. Arundel paused.
"When was it? When did this happen?"
"Three days ago. I wrote at once to your grandmamma; but I had no time to explain then. I have written again since."
"Could nothing be done?" asked Nellie, looking hopelessly up in her father's face, and knowing her question was vain, even while she put it.
"Nothing more than has been done, dear child. Two physicians have been to see her; but they both know that the heart is in a very critical state."
"Dear papa," said Nellie, hesitating, and laying her head once more on his shoulder, "we still can pray. Perhaps it may be God's will to hear us."