"What is the matter, Sylvan? What has happened? Why have you sent the carriage away?" Cora anxiously inquired.
"Because, my dear, we must not leave Rockhold at present," he gravely replied. "There has been an accident, Cora."
"An accident! On the railroad?"
"No, my dear; to our old grandfather."
"To grandfather! Oh, Sylvan! no! no!" she cried, turning white, and dropping upon a bench, all her latent affection for the aged patriarch—the unsuspected affection—waking in her heart.
"Yes, dear," said Sylvan, softly.
"Seriously? Dangerously? Fatally? Perhaps he is dead and you are trying to break it to me! You can't do it! You can't! Oh, Sylvan, is grandfather dead?" she wildly demanded.
"No, dear! No, no, no! Compose yourself. They are bringing him here, and he is perfectly conscious. He must not see you so much agitated. It would annoy him. We do not yet know how seriously he is hurt. He was thrown from his carriage when near North End. The horses took fright at the passing of a train. They ran away and went over that steep bank just at the entrance of the village. The carriage was shattered all to pieces; the coachman killed outright—poor old Joseph—and the horses so injured that they had to be shot."
"Poor old Joseph! I am so sorry! so very sorry! But grandfather! grandfather!"
"He was picked up insensible; carried to the hotel on a mattress laid on planks, borne by half a dozen workmen, and the doctor was summoned immediately. He was laid in bed, and all means were tried to restore consciousness. But as soon as he came to his senses he demanded to be brought home. The doctor thought it dangerous to do so. But you know the grandfather's obstinacy. So a stretcher was prepared, a spring mattress laid on it, and he has been borne all the way from North End to Rockhold Ferry by relays of six men at a time, relieving each other at short intervals, and escorted by the doctor and our two uncles. That, Cora, is all I can tell you."