"Remember seriously wounded may not mean mortally wounded," Dr. Farrant hastened to remind her; "do not make up your mind that your father will not be restored to you."
"No, I will not!" The poor child uncovered her face. "Oh, I hope—I pray that he is not suffering much! My dear, dear father! Oh, I wish I could go to him! But of course I can't!"
"Comfort yourself with the thought that he is being skilfully tended at Boulogne. You may be sure of that."
All this time Mr. Basset had not uttered a word, but had remained standing by the writing-table, his eyes fixed on the telegram in his hand. Now he turned to his sister and said: "Do try to compose yourself, Ann; this is no time for giving way to grief. There's much to be thought of—and done."
"I can't help crying," answered Miss Basset, "you know I was never very brave. And I'm so sorry for Josephine!"
Josephine rose, and, crossing the room, kissed her aunt tenderly.
"Dear Aunt Ann!" she whispered, then her eyes filled with tears, choking sobs rose in her throat, and the next minute, clasped in Aunt Ann's loving arms, she was weeping in such an abandonment of grief that the old lady was startled and frightened.
"Let her cry," Dr. Farrant said, as Miss Basset gave him a glance of alarm, "it will do her a world of good."
By the time Josephine's tears were exhausted the doctor had gone, and Mr. Basset, who had seen him off at the front door, was examining a railway time-table at his writing-table. As Josephine lifted her tear-stained face from Miss Basset's shoulder, her uncle remarked—
"I want you to come and pack my portmanteau for me, Ann; I'm going a journey."