They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings.
“Go up, Miss Ethel,” said nurse.
“Oh! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.”
Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and face in one throb of expectation.
She looked into Harry’s face—the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the hillside, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held out her arms.
He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped among his thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, “Oh, if he could only have come back to you.”
“Thank God,” she said; then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his shoulder, and gazing in silence into his face. Each was still—she was gathering strength—he dreaded word or look.
“Tell me how and where;” she said at last.
“It was in the Loyalty Isles; it was fever—the exertions for us. His head was lying here,” and he pointed to his own breast. “He sent his love to you—he bade me tell you there would be meeting by and by, in the haven where he would be.—I laid his head in the grave—under the great palm—I said some of the prayers—there are Christians round it.”
He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to gather voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks and pressure of his hand.