George raised his arm, and, discovering the brown envelope, he picked it up and looked at it.
“Why, it is a telegram, addressed to you!” said he, handing it over to his friend, whose face had suddenly grown as pale as death.
“A telegram!” gasped Bob. “It can mean but one of two things. My father is worse, or else he is—”
Bob could say no more. With trembling hands, he tore open the dispatch, and, with one swift glance, made himself master of its contents. Then he pressed his hand to his forehead in a bewildered sort of way, reeled a moment, as if some one had dealt him a stunning blow, and, falling heavily back upon the sofa, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. The telegram fluttered out of his nerveless fingers.
George picked it up, and read the following fateful words:
“Your father died very suddenly this morning. Come home immediately, and telegraph me from Leavenworth when to meet you at the station.
G. H. Evans.”
We will not speak of the scene that followed. Such sorrow as this, which had come upon Bob Howard like a clap of thunder from a clear sky, is too sacred to be intruded upon, even by a sympathizing pen.
It will be enough to say that after the first overwhelming burst of grief had passed away, Bob acted more like a caged tiger than a human being. He longed to fly on the wings of the wind to his far-off home, in order that he might gaze once more upon that loved face before the darkness of the grave shut it out forever from his view.
But steam was the only power that could take him there. The next train left the village at six in the morning, and that was the one Bob had intended to take.
He ate no supper, and when the time came he began preparing himself for the evening’s festivities. What a mockery they seemed to him now!