The moon was coming slowly through a bank of clouds, and the wind sighing mournfully through the bare treetops, as she sped swiftly down the path and through the gate, whose familiar slam sounded dreary and dull, though it hardly reached her, as she ran down the quiet street.
In just a few minutes she saw another figure wearing a familiar shawl in the moonlight.
"Why, Olive," cried Mrs. Dering. "Were you all worried about me. Mr. Dane wanted to walk home with me, but I told him I would stop at the store for papa, and when I got there, the boy told me he had taken the afternoon train to the city; some sudden business I suppose. Why dear, how you have run!"
"Oh, mama!" it was Olive's only utterance, but it told its own story, for Mrs. Dering instantly grasped the hand held out to her and inquired sharply:
"What is it, quick,—any trouble at home?"
"Yes,"—gaspingly.
"What,—I heard them talking of an accident,—Oh! Olive!"
"Papa," said Olive, growing calm as she saw her mother blanch and tremble in the pale light; but Mrs. Dering waited for no more; grasping Olive's hand still tighter, she broke into a swift run, that did not slacken, until the steps were reached, and the sobbing within reached their ears; then Olive forcibly held her back an instant.
"Oh, mama,—wait,—let me tell you,—"
"No,—he is dead, I know it;" and breaking from the detaining hold, Mrs. Dering ran in, and when Olive reached the door, she was kneeling beside the litter, with one dead hand pressed to her hidden face.