"Clara, love, come and sit down; you are almost fainting—(oh, heaven, support her!)" murmured Traverse, as he led the poor girl to the hall sofa.
"Tell me! Tell me!" she said.
"Clara—your father——"
"My father! No, no—no—do not say any harm has happened to my father—do not, Traverse!—do not!"
"Oh, Clara, try to be firm, dear one!"
"My father! Oh, my father!—he is dead!" shrieked Clara, starting up wildly to run, she knew not whither.
Traverse sprang up and caught her arm and drawing her gently back to her seat, said:
"No, dear Clara—no, not so bad as that—he is living!"
"Oh, thank heaven for so much! What is it, then, Traverse? He is ill! Oh, let me go to him!"
"Stay, dear Clara—compose yourself first! You would not go and disturb him with this frightened and distressed face of yours—let me get you a glass of water," said Traverse, starting up and bringing the needed sedative from an adjoining room.