Writing became so difficult and distasteful that I threw down my pen, sprang from my chair, and began rapidly pacing up and down the room. My wife had gone to the city that morning to visit her relatives, and was not to return until the following day; so I was alone, with only two servants in the house.
I couldn't keep the thoughts of Bob out of my mind. Saturday being a holiday, I had allowed him to go off to spend the afternoon as he chose; and, as it was unusually warm, there was little doubt where and how he was spending it. He would strike a bee-line for that shady mill-pond, and they would spend hours plashing in its cool and delicious depths.
I looked at the clock; it was a few minutes past five, and Bob ought to have been home long ago. What made him so late?
My fear was growing more intense every minute. The boy was in my mind continually to the exclusion of everything else. Despite all my philosophy and rigid common-sense, the conviction was fastening on me that something dreadful had befallen him.
And what was that something? He had been drowned in the mill-pond. I glanced out of the window, half expecting to see a party bearing the lifeless body homeward. Thank Heaven, I was spared that woful sight, but I discerned something else that sent a misgiving pang through me.
It was Mrs. Clarkson, our nearest neighbor, rapidly approaching, as if the bearer of momentous tidings.
"She has come to tell me that Bob is drowned," I gasped, as my heart almost ceased its beating.
I met her on the threshold, with a calmness of manner which belied the tumult within. Greeting her courteously, I invited her inside, stating that my wife was absent.
"I thank you," she said, "but it is not worth while. I thought I ought to come over and tell you."
"Tell me what?" I inquired, swallowing the lump in my throat.