The east window of the library looked toward Boston. To this my mother went, and stood looking out for some time; then she turned and began to speak.
'Your master,' she said, addressing Peter and Dora, 'has been killed. We are here to make plans for the future.'
Dora threw up both hands, giving a little shriek as she did so. Peter lifted his great eyes to the ceiling, and slid to his knees; a little later he pressed his hands hard over his heart as though to prevent it from beating its way through. He found relief in swaying backward and forward, and uttering a long, low moan, which finally shaped into, 'Poor Massa killed.' He kept repeating this, until we were all on the point of giving way to our smothered emotion. But my mother's voice recalled us.
'What are we to do, Roger?' she said.
Instantly the thought of a new and great responsibility flashed upon me. Was my mother to relinquish the leadership? Did her question mean that I was to step at once into the place of my fallen father? Had she forgotten that I was but sixteen? I glanced at my sisters, but I found I could not look long upon them in their helplessness, and retain my self-control.
With a hurried glance at the servants, who now sobbed audibly in spite of all efforts at suppression of grief, my eyes came again to the face of my mother. The look of noble fortitude had gone, and I saw that I must no longer delay in coming to her assistance.
She motioned me to my father's empty chair; I took it at once, and, though I felt all eyes in the room turn upon me, prompted by a rush of heroic feeling, I neither flinched nor blushed under their gaze. But in spite of my pretended composure nature had her way. My sister Elizabeth, breaking into a flood of tears, rushed across the floor to my mother's arms, and soon all were weeping uncontrollably. Mastering my rising feelings, I began thinking what was best to be done.
