Freda grew cold, and her crutch rattled on the stones.
“What do you mean? ‘Didn’t treat me well’!” she whispered. “He will, I am sure he will, when he sees me, knows me.”
“Oh, no, you’re mistaken. He’s dead.”
Freda did not utter a sound, did not move. She remained transfixed, benumbed, stupefied by the awful intelligence.
“It isn’t true! It can’t be true!” she whispered at last, with dry lips. “Barnabas saw him to-day—just now.”
“He was alive two hours ago. He went out this afternoon, came in in a great state of excitement and went up to his room. Presently I heard a report, burst open the door, and found him dead—shot through the head.”
“Dead!” repeated Freda hoarsely.
She could not believe it. All the dreams, which she had cherished up to the last moment in spite of disappointments and disillusions, of a tender and loving father whom her affection and dutiful obedience should reconcile to a world which had treated him harshly, were in a moment dashed to the ground.
“Dead!”
It was the knell of all her hopes, all her girlish happiness. Forlorn, friendless, utterly alone, she was stranded upon this unknown corner of the world, in a cheerless house, with no one to offer her even the comfort of a kindly pressure of the hand. The man seemed sorry for her. He stamped on the ground impatiently, as if her grief distressed and annoyed him.