In an instant his mother, forgetful of the paper, was by his side. "You have overdone yourself, my boy," she said. "All that running about has been too much for you."
"No," said the boy, and he spoke with difficulty; "I am all right, mother!" and then, with a wild cry, "O mother, mother, how can I tell you? It's about the Morning Star, and—and father!"
Mrs. Hartland did not cry out or make a scene; only her lips twitched painfully, and she laid a hand on the table to steady herself.
"Tell me the worst, Jim," she whispered bravely; and the boy drew the paper from his pocket with trembling fingers.
"Read it," she said simply; and he tried hard, but his voice broke down before the end of the first sentence.
Then she looked at it herself, but the letters seemed only black dots which danced about and intermingled as if trying to hide from her.
"Give it to me, mother," said Susie.
For the moment they had forgotten her, but the sound of her voice sent a fresh arrow of pain through the mother's heart. But Susie was used to sorrow, and drew strength from her very weakness. Steadily she read through the paragraph from beginning to end, while her mother stood, white-faced and tearless, drinking in every word.
"The second mate, John Hartland, went down with the ship!"
To the woman and children in that little room the words formed the whole paragraph.