He shook his head.
“Nay, there is nothing wrong?”
“Don't alarm yourself, my dear.”
Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
“Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is not at home, you had better read the letter yourself.”
She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up helplessly. “I—I cannot understand.”
“I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter cautiously, too,” muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, “Upon my honour, my dear, I assure you your father is alive.”
“Alive! Oh, my poor father!” And then she sank down slowly where she stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wyld thought she had fainted; but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him, nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid composure.
“I can listen now. Tell me everything!”
He told her in a few words how Captain Rothesay had come to his house the night before; and, while waiting his return, had taken up the newspaper. “Suddenly, my clerk said, he let it fall with a cry, and was immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered. There is hope, the doctor thinks; but, in case of the worst, you must come to him at once.”