“Oh, what is it? Were their lives saved? Were they unhurt?”
“Just forty miles to the East of the accident your father received a telegram. It seems there was some mining trouble in the Southwest, and he was ordered to go there at once. Both your father and mother got off at a junction and so missed the accident.”
“Oh, thank God! thank God! And when shall I see them?”
“Very soon, Clarence. On the very day you arrived here, I sent telegrams to different cities, and had advertisements inserted in the most prominent papers in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Cleveland and Cincinnati. The ads. read something like this: Any friends or relations of Clarence Esmond falsely reported drowned are requested to write or call upon the President of Campion College, Prairie du Chien, Wis.”
“Did you really do that, Father?”
“Yes, my boy,” answered the Rector, as the two went up the steps and proceeded in the direction of the infirmary. “And it seems that in New York a member of the firm that sent the telegram to your father read the ad. He at once wired your parents—and—and—” the Rector paused.
They were standing just outside the parlor, from which came the sound of voices.
“They’re here! They’re here?” cried Clarence, and burst into the parlor.
Father George Keenan considerately waited outside until the first rapture of reunion should have died away; waited and thought with gratitude to God of his part in a romance of the upper Mississippi, a romance of childhood and innocence, and the sure, guiding hand of Divine Providence.
The parlor door opened presently, and Clarence came out.