The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the bishop took it up.
“Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the present moment, old friend,” he said, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Everyone’s heart will open to you, John, in this time of trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is best left to the care of his wife.”
The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman’s voice was husky as he uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his side.
“Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You’ve had news from the war. What is it—nothing has happened to Harry?”
“No, child—your brother.”
“Oh!”
The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty’s shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured: 122
“Is Dick wounded or—?”
“The worst, Netty dear. He is gone.”
He spoke with his face still hidden. “Go to your mother,” he pleaded, for he wished to be alone.