God bless you, my poor children, and have mercy on us all!
Your loving father,
H. Merrifield.
That was all; and Christabel felt, more than even the children did, from how full and heavy a heart those words had been written.
Though she hardly knew how to speak, she tried to comfort Susan by showing her that her father had evidently not given up all hope; but Susan was crying more at the thought of her Mamma’s present illness and pain than with fear of the future; and Sam said sadly, “He would not have written at all unless it had been very bad indeed.”
“Yes,” said Miss Fosbrook; “but I believe, in cases like this, there is often great fear, and then very speedy improvement.”
“Oh dear,” said Bessie, speaking for the first time, “I know it will be. Little girls in story-books always do have their mammas—die!”
“Story-books are all nonsense, so it won’t happen,” said Sam; and really it seemed as if the habit of contradicting Bessie had suggested to him the greatest consolation that had yet occurred.
Just then Henry and the younger ones came in, and learnt the tidings. Henry wept as bitterly as his elder sister, and John and Annie both did the same; but David did not speak one word, as if he hardly took in what was the matter, and, going to the window, took up his lesson-books as usual.
“It is nine o’clock, Hal,” said Sam presently.
“Oh, we can’t go to Mr. Carey to-day,” said Hal.
“Yes, we shall,” returned Sam.