“Listen!” The girls heard the hoof-beats of Dr. Matthews’ horse, as it clattered over the new cement driveway. “He’s going for help!” exclaimed Isabel. “But they’re either safe on shore or not,—nobody could get to them in time.”
“But they always have life preservers,” said Virginia.
“Yes,—if they can stand the waves.”
“Who do you suppose has gone to Greycliff?”
“Don’t you imagine the riding master?”
“No; he lives at Greycliff.”
In about an hour, after the storm was over a reporter appeared upon the scene. He was shown into the reception room, and fearing that the authorities would not see him, he sought whatever information he could get from the girls. This was a good deal, for under excitement some of the girls forgot their proper reserve and told the who, when and where, in all the details which the reporter wanted for a good story. Thus it came about that on the streets of New York and in the other places where dwelt the parents of the senior academy girls the newsboys cried, “Terrible disaster at girls’ school. Read about the storm. More than twenty girls drowned when the Greycliff goes down!”
“The Greycliff!” thought Philip Van Buskirk, as he ran out from the building where his father’s office was located, to buy a paper.
Dr. Lancaster was on his way from calling on a sick parishioner, his thoughts already somber from the near presence of death, when he heard the news called.
In still another city, a white-faced mother read her daughter’s name in the list of those thought to be lost. Mrs. North had picked up the evening papers from her front steps where it had been thrown as usual.