“Oh, Uncle Add!” she murmured to him—for she had long called him by this endearing title—Oh, Uncle Add! What is it? Is my father—is he really—”
“My dear little girl, your father is dead, I am sorry to say. You must be very brave, and bear up. Be the brave woman he would want you to be.”
“I will, Uncle Add. But, oh, it is so hard! He was all I had! Oh, what made him die?”
She questioned almost as a little child might have done.
“That I don't know, my dear,” answered Dr. Lambert gently. “We shall have to find that out later by—Well, we'll find out later, Dr. Baird and I. You had better go home now. I'll have your car brought around. Is that—that Frenchman here—your chauffeur?”
“Yes, he was here a little while ago. But I had rather not go home with him—at least, unless some one else comes with me. I don't like—I don't like that big, new car.
“If you will come with me, Viola—” began Bartlett.
“Yes, Harry, I'll go with you. Oh, poor Aunt Mary! This will be a terrible shock to her. I—”
“I'll telephone,” offered Dr. Lambert. “She'll know when you arrive. And I'll be over to see you, Viola, as soon as I make some arrangements.”
“And will you look after—after poor father?”