"Your mother died of—a broken heart, Peregrine," said uncle Jervas.
"Sweet child!" added uncle George.
"Then I pray that God in His mercy has mended it long ere this," said
I. "And my father, sirs,—how came he by death so early?"
Here my two uncles exchanged looks as though a little at a loss.
"Has your aunt never told you?" enquired my uncle Jervas.
"Never, sir! And her distress forbade my questioning more than the once. But you are men and so I ask you how did your brother and my father die?"
"Shot in a duel, lad, killed on the spot!" said my uncle George, and I saw his big hand clench itself into a quivering fist. "They fought in a little wood not so far from here—such a lad he was—our fag at school, d'ye see. I remember they carried him up these very steps—and the sun so bright—and he had scarcely begun to live—"
"And the bullet that slew him," added my uncle Jervas, "just as surely killed your mother also."
"Yes!" said I. "And whose hand sped that bullet?"
"He is dead!" murmured my uncle Jervas, gazing up at the placid moon.
"Dead and out of reach—years ago."