Poor Beatrice laid her tired head on her father’s breast, with the feeling that she had one friend left in the world.
“I know it, dear Father. But it is such a comfort that you feel it with me.”
“There are not many who will, I can guess,” answered Bruno. “But, my child, I am afraid thou dost not know all.”
“Father!—what is it?” asked Beatrice, fearfully.
“One has fallen in that massacre, very dear to thee and me, my daughter.”
“Delecresse?” She thought him the most likely to be in London of any of the family.
“No. Delecresse is safe, so far as I know.”
“Is it Uncle Moss?—or Levi my cousin?”
“Beatrice, it is Abraham the son of Ursel, the father of us all.”
The low cry of utter desolation which broke from the girl’s lips was pitiful to hear.