"Poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. You must go to master; that's what I want you to do, Miss Sophy. You must break it to him, poor old gentleman. Come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and the men are waiting to speak to him."
Sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door.
"Oh! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say?"
"I'll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by degrees."
"I can't, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to say the wrong thing."
However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shaded light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco of the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the carpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply.
At that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans's song came full into Sophy's mind.
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"Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the realms unseen by you, To life's dim, weary track." |
But this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more than dim and weary, hereafter.
"Papa," said she, softly. He did not stir.