The second day following that on which Mr. Dale was brought home ill, Dr. Ware stayed longer than usual with his patient and came out of the sickroom with a grave face. In the hall the girls were waiting for him as usual.
“My dears,” he said, abruptly, drawing them into the library, “you have to know the worst, and there is no one but me to tell you.” For a moment he hesitated. “Your father’s illness is caused by his financial ruin—his entire fortune has been swept away. He has lost everything, and the shock of his failure has paralyzed him.” For a moment neither spoke; each girl felt that she could hear her heart beat in the awful silence of the room. Then Julie said:
“Won’t Daddy soon be better? Oh, you can’t mean he will always be sick like this?” Her eyes were black with pain and apprehension.
“He will never move about again. Physically he may suffer very little; the anguish will come through the consciousness of his helplessness——”
“We will not let him feel that,” interrupted Julie, throwing up her head. “Hester and I are strong.”
The Doctor cleared his throat. “Thank God for that, for you’ve a hard fight ahead of you.”
Hester crept close to his side. “Will you tell us more about it, please,” she whispered in a strange, tense voice; “it’s so—so difficult to understand.”
“Of course it is, dear,” putting his arm around her. “Things began to go wrong a year ago. Your father felt it, and nearly abandoned the European trip, then went after all, feeling absolute need of rest and hoping he had left the snarl sufficiently straightened out to go on without him. But things went from bad to worse, and he came back to more complications than any one man could manage. Even then he might have pulled through somehow if that western road in which he had so largely invested had not smashed and carried him down with it. You don’t want the details, Hester.”
“No,” she answered, “it is enough that the thing is.”
He looked at her intently, as if astonished that so philosophic a statement should come from so young a person.