"Is he dead?" Something like light came into his dull eye. The lamp above gave a sudden vast flicker, and the long scar on his face deepened and lengthened and came back to itself again. It was all like a sinister and cynical smile.
"Marcus! don't you know? Where have you been? Haven't you got any of my letters?"
He leaned against the silly rusticity of the summer-house, and looked at her with a dazed but inquiring eye.
"It's mother! It's mother!" the poor girl cried. "Why didn't you come?"
"Why, how is this?" asked Cornelia, stepping forward. "Hadn't he heard?"
"I mailed them to the same place. And the money—didn't you get that, either?"
He looked at her steadily and soberly, but his eyes had a heavy droop. "It's mother," he said at length; "it's mother that's dead." He sat down carefully on the steps of the summerhouse. "And my name was the last. Always the last, Abbie. When was it?"
"Has he moved—do you suppose?" asked Cornelia. She regarded him long and steadily. She seemed about to recognize him—though voice was apparently counting for more than face.
"It was only day before yesterday," Abbie said. "I tried to see you, but it was so far and there was so much to do. But I sent you word."
"I haven't been there lately," he said slowly. "I couldn't have come day before yesterday," he added presently.