“You are right. I must go to him.” Elliott’s face knit convulsively as he spoke, crushing back the horror that almost paralyzed him. Then the sheriff proposed to get a buggy and drive him to Mr. Carr’s. As they rode along silently, all nature was still and peaceful—cruelly peaceful it seemed to Elliott, as he sat with his head inclined, his body shaken with deep grief, his breast laboring hard.
They soon reached the hushed, dark home. A long trail of blood lay in ruddy streaks from the gateway to the door where the white crape swayed so gently—so gently.
Elliott walked slowly and as if stunned. He went into the house, turned and looked about him.
The parlor door was slightly open. He went in and began to walk the floor—the resource of those who suffer. There are instincts for all the crises of life—he felt that he was not alone.
Nervously he unclasped and threw open the window blind, then, turning, cast his eyes sadly about him.
There sat the old father in a posture of dejection, his eyes almost closed. Just beyond lay his child! Clasping his hands with an expression full of the most violent, most gentle entreaty, Elliott uttered a piercing cry!
“Dorothy! Dorothy, my little girl, come back to me! Come back!” And with this appeal he sank upon his knees with both hands upon his eyes.
“Elliott! Elliott!”
He raised his head at length and looked steadily at Mr. Carr—this venerable, manly face, upon which God had imprinted goodness and heroism.
“Yes, father,” and leaning forward he embraced his white head. Drawing it to his breast, his overcharged heart found relief in tears.