“And did you say—I can’t remember—was he hurt?”
The shuddering came again, “His arm—all twisted—broken,” and his voice sank into a faint whisper; Ethel was obliged to sprinkle him again with water. “But he won’t die?” said she, in a tone calm from its bewilderment.
“Oh! no, no, no—”
“And Margaret?”
“They were bringing her home. I’ll go and see. Oh! what’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed he, scolding himself, as, sitting up, he was forced to rest his head on his shaking hand.
“You are still faint, dear Norman; you had better lie still, and I’ll go and see.”
“Faint—stuff—how horridly stupid!” but he was obliged to lay his head down again; and Ethel, scarcely less trembling, crept carefully towards the stairs, but a dread of what she might meet came over her, and she turned towards the nursery.
The younger ones sat there in a frightened huddle. Mary was on a low chair by the infant’s cot, Blanche in her lap, Tom and Harry leaning against her, and Aubrey almost asleep. Mary held up her finger as Ethel entered, and whispered, “Hush! don’t wake baby for anything!”
The first true pang of grief shot through Ethel like a dart, stabbing and taking away her breath, “Where are they?” she said; “how is papa? who is with him?”
“Mr. Ward and Alan Ernescliffe,” said Harry. “Nurse came up just now, and said they were setting his arm.”