"Aunt," said Alice, in a faint voice—Miss Berengaria always liked to hear the name, although she was no relative—"Aunt!"
At the sound of the faint voice the old dame wheeled round—she was active in spite of being eighty years of age—and uttered an exclamation on seeing the white face of the girl. Alice was deathly pale and, clinging with one hand to some wire netting, held a newspaper in the other. "What's the matter, child? Anything wrong?"
"Bernard?" gasped Alice. "Oh, Bernard! Bernard!"
"This must be looked into," said Miss Berengaria, using her favorite expression. "Something is wrong with that silly boy. What's he been doing, child? It must be something bad if it's in the paper."
"I don't believe he did it," said Alice, trembling. "He is innocent."
Miss Berengaria trembled also and sat down. "Don't hint at horrors, Alice," she said, with an effort at self-command. "I'm not fit for such things. I don't suppose the boy's killed anyone—though, to be sure, as he's a soldier now, it's his trade."
"Murder!"
"Eh! What's that? Murder, Alice!" The old lady's ruddy cheeks grew white, and she stretched out her hand for the paper. "Show me!" she said resolutely.
Alice did not hand her the paper. She seemed almost incapable of understanding what was said.
"Bernard is dead!" she moaned.