The music ceased, and all gazed at the weird figure which, with glaring eyes and dishevelled hair, stood in their midst.
“Here, Aunt Hulda, what’s the matter?” and Becky stepped from her place among the dancers.
“O, Becky! Becky! home, quick! Your mother’s had another shock!”
Becky screamed, and ran after Aunt Hulda, who immediately turned and left the house. There was no more dancing: the company quietly dispersed. When the last guest had departed, Mrs. Thompson put on her shawl, and with Harry and the captain, started for the house across the bridge. The church clock struck eleven.
At that very moment the train entered the depot at Foxtown, and from it jumped a stout, long-bearded weather-bronzed man.
Aunt Hulda was right. A second stroke of paralysis had fallen upon Delia Sleeper, sealing the lips that had so often of late uttered tender words of love to the heart-broken child, who now lay weeping upon her breast. There was no sign of life upon that pale face, save in the eyes that wandered from face to face, and sought the open door with a wishful look. They were all about her,—Aunt Hulda, Mrs. Thompson, Harry, the captain, Teddy,—all anxiously waiting the verdict of Dr. Allen. Soon the doctor made his appearance, soberly examined his patient, gave a few whispered instructions to Aunt Hulda, and left the room, followed by the captain.
“O, mother, speak to me! only speak to me!” sobbed Becky. “Tell me you forgive me for leaving you. I didn’t know this was coming—indeed I didn’t. Forgive me dear, dear mother!”
No sound from the lips, but the eyes sought the dear face with a troubled look.
“Nay, Becky,” said Mrs. Thompson, “you have done no wrong. It was your mother’s wish that you should go to-night.”