"How is mamma?" I asked.
"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.
"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."
"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.
And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not say my mother was better.
My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy, and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.
When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound—no bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma loved were all quiet—the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more of my fears to Emma.
She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for me, and left me there.
I went in and sprang to my father's arms—my own clasped together round his neck—looking eagerly in his face.
Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of yesterday—so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had shed many tears.