Elinor had risen from her chair, and stood leaning against the table. “That is horrible! horrible! It does not seem possible! What do they think became of her?”
“Nobody knows. There are several theories, but nothing is certain. You are probably the only survivor.”
“But were there no traces of her,–no wreckage, nothing to give a clew?”
“Nothing.”
With drooping head and a hand across her eyes, she murmured: “Poor Louise! And my uncle–and Father Burke!” And she sank back into her chair.
The Archbishop took a step nearer. “Did you know Father Burke?”
“He was a dear friend.”
At this reply the eyebrows of the holy man were elevated. A light broke in upon him. With a manner more sympathetic than heretofore–and less patronizing–he said gently:
“Father Burke was a dear friend of mine, also,–an irreparable loss to the Church and to all 211who knew him. Is it possible you are the young lady whom he held in such high esteem and affection, and of whom he wrote to me? Were you in his spiritual charge, with thoughts of a convent?”
She nodded.