He started up and ran towards me, seizing and wringing my hand.
'Oh, Murdoch,' he cried, 'our poor father!'
'You have had a letter—he is ill?'
'He is ill.'
'Dugald,' I cried, 'tell me all! Dugald—is—father—dead?'
No reply.
I staggered towards the table, and dropped limp and stricken and helpless into a chair.
I think I must have been ill for many, many days after this sad news. I have little recollection of the events of the next week—I was engrossed, engulfed in the one great sorrow. The unexpected death of so well-beloved a father in the meridian of life was a terrible blow to us all, but more so to me, with all I had on my mind.
'And so, and so,' I thought, as I began to recover, 'there is an end to my bright dreams of future happiness—the 252 dream of all my dreams, to have father out here among us in our new home in the Silver West, and all the dark portions of the past forgotten. Heaven give me strength to bear it!'
I had spoken the last words aloud, for a voice at my elbow said—