"Good afternoon," replied the older woman. "Come right in, my dear. I've been expecting you."
Linda had been watching her face, to try to ascertain from her expression whether the news of her father was bad.
"How—how—is Daddy?" she asked, with trembling lips, as she and Roger followed Mrs. Cates into the big room where her father evidently spent most of his indoor hours. A huge fireplace occupied most of one wall, and there were many book-shelves. A table, a few chairs, and an old couch were all the other furnishings, so that the great room looked almost empty and desolate without its master.
"He is still alive—but unconscious," sighed Mrs. Cates, shaking her head mournfully. Her expression was one of resignation; she felt sure that Mr. Carlton could not get better.
"Unconscious!" repeated Linda. "Has he been so, long?"
"Ever since his fall. He was riding a new horse—that he never should have bought—and was thrown down a steep bank. His leg is broken, but worse than that, he suffered severe internal injuries. Dr. Winston is afraid there ain't much hope."
The words were the cruelest Linda had ever heard; she burst out crying, and hid her face on Mrs. Cates' motherly shoulder. Roger Stillman remained standing, embarrassed. He did not know what to do.
He coughed slightly, and Linda looked up, ashamed of herself for breaking down.
"Is there anything at all, Linda, that I can do for you?" he asked. "Or for you, Mrs. Cates?"