CHAPTER VII.
NEWS OF THE MISSING MAN.
The next morning, while Aaron Rockharrt slept the sleep of the dead-in-selfishness, his wife arose and crept into the bedroom of her granddaughter.
Cora was awake, but not yet up.
"Oh, grandma, you will get your death of cold! walking about the house in your night gown. What is it? What do you want? Can I do anything for you?" cried the girl, springing out of bed to turn on the heat of the register, and then wrapping a large shawl around the old lady, and putting her into the cushioned easy chair.
"Now what is it, dear grandma? What can I do for you?" she inquired, as she drew on her own wadded dressing gown and sat on the side of the bed near the old lady.
"You can do something to set my mind at ease, my dear; but it will be painful for you, and I do not know whether you will do it," said the old lady with timid hesitation.
"I can do this, dear? Then, of course, I will do it," replied the girl.
"It is almost too much to ask of you, my child."
"There is nothing, nothing that I would not do to give you peace—you, poor dear, who have so little peace," said Cora, tenderly, smoothing the silver hair away from the wrinkled brow of the old lady, who began to drop a few weak tears of self-pity, excited by Cora's sympathy.