"But he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his anxiety to a point.
"Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastily rising, as if to leave the room.
"Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor—but I'm afraid—I believe it's of no use."
He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. His son, his only son, was dead.
He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed his head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook and rattled under his agony.
Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.
"Go! you are not Harry," said he; but the action roused him.
"Where is he? where is the—" said he, with his strong face set into the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.
"In the servants' hall," said nurse. "Two policemen and another man brought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you are able, sir."
"I am able now," replied he. At first when he stood up, he tottered. But steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill, to the door. Then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from the decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caught the wine-glass which Harry had used but two or three hours before. He sighed a long quivering sigh. And then mastering himself again, he left the room.