Zuleime was moving about the room, and giving directions to a servant, who had brought in cakes and preserves. Finally she sat down, and took out her knitting—it was a pair of white lamb’s wool socks, for her father—and knitted while she waited. She had not long to wait.
The door swung open silently, and Mr. Clifton entered, with a newspaper in his hand, but looking so shocked and troubled, that all, with one accord, raised their eyes in silent inquiry.
“Poor Frank! poor Frank!” exclaimed the old man, as if he was ready to burst into a passion of tears.
“What!—what of Frank?” asked a faltering, gasping voice, which he could not recognize as belonging to either of the three young women present—yet answered, mechanically—
“Those bloody Redskins! Those ghastly, horrible Savages!” he cried, throwing himself into a chair.
“There—there has been some fighting! Is——Tell me!—tell me! You know what I want to know. Is Archer safe?” exclaimed Carolyn, bending forward. While sallow and fierce, the eyes of Georgia gleamed the terror and anxiety she dared not express!
“Archer is safe!” said Mr. Clifton.
And the light of a sudden joy flitted across Georgia’s dark face,—and Carolyn sank back, with a look of grateful relief. And no one noticed Zuleime. And no one knew that she had spoken.
“Yes! Archer is safe! Thank God! And a thousand times thank God, that Archer is safe! But Frank!—poor Frank! My God what a fate! Who shall tell his mother?”
“For Heaven’s sake!—what has happened to Mr. Fairfax?” asked Georgia.