"We don't know the number," rejoined Esther; "my father's name is Ellis; he was brought here two or three nights since—he was beaten by the mob."
"Oh, yes; I know now who you mean—number sixty—bad case that, shocking bad case—hands chopped—head smashed—leg broke; he'll have to cross over, I guess—make a die of it, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Ellis shuddered, and turned pale, as the man coolly discussed her husband's injuries, and their probable fatal termination. Caddy, observing her agitation, said, "Please, sir, don't talk of it; mother can't bear it."
The man looked at them compassionately for a few moments—then continued: "You mustn't think me hard-hearted—I see so much of these things, that I can't feel them as others do. This is a dreadful thing to you, no doubt, but it's an every-day song to me—people are always coming here mangled in all sorts of ways—so, you see, I've got used to it—in fact, I'd rather miss 'em now if they didn't come. I've sat in this seat every day for almost twenty years;" and he looked on the girls and their mother as he gave them this piece of information as if he thought they ought to regard him henceforth with great reverence.
Not finding them disposed to converse, the doorkeeper resumed the newspaper he was reading when they entered, and was soon deeply engrossed in a horrible steam-boat accident.
The sound of wheels in the courtyard attracting his attention, he looked up, and remarked: "Here's the doctor—as soon as he has walked the wards you'll be admitted."
Mrs. Ellis and her daughters turned round as the door opened, and, to their great joy, recognized Doctor Burdett.
"How d'ye do?" said he, extending his hand to Mrs. Ellis—"what's the matter? Crying!" he continued, looking at their tearful faces; "what has happened?"
"Oh, doctor," said Esther, "father's lying here, very much injured; and they think he'll die," said she, giving way to a fresh burst of grief.
"Very much injured—die—how is this?—I knew nothing of it—I haven't been here before this week."