“Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?”
“Yes, I’ll come—no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura,” said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. “There, Kitty, my dear, don’t cry. It will be all right soon.”
At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband.
“Mrs Wimble!” cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman’s arm excitedly; “you have brought some news about my son.”
“No,” moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. “Went out tea-time, and never come back all night.”
“Yes, yes, we know that,” said Uncle Josiah sternly; “but how did you know?”
“Know, sir? I’ve been sitting up for him all this dreadful night.”
“What, for my nephew?”
“No, sir, for my Jem.”
“Lindon—James Wimble!” said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. “Impossible! It can’t be true.”