“Mr Leslie,” said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his sister’s shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; “you will forgive a weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?”
“Forgive you, Mr Vine!”
“I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak.”
“But Louise?” cried Aunt Marguerite.
“Read her letter. Gone!” cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the note in the old woman’s face.
“Gone!” said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face. “Gone! Thank God—thank God!”
“George, what are you saying?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly.
“I say thank God that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow that has fallen upon my home to-night.”
Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head, dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan senseless at his brother’s feet.