He was dreadfully shocked—she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt. “Margaret had some harm done to her spine—she cannot walk.”
He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.
They had just passed Mr Bramshaw’s office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, “Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!” and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.
“Miss Ethel!” he said breathlessly, “I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?”
“No!” said Ethel. “Have they had that paper at home?”
“Not that I know of,” said Edward. “My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it—not while Dr. May was away.”
“Thank you—that was very kind of you.”
“And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?”
“We hope not,” said Ethel kindly—“we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on.”
“I am so glad,” said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. “We are very anxious for news of my next brother’s ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific—”