“Pray come in, Mrs. Ross. I am glad to see you,” said the widow.
“I will come in for five minutes,” said Mrs. Ross, carefully gathering up her skirts, lest they should be soiled as she entered the humble cottage. She need not have been alarmed, for there was not a cleaner house in the village.
Mrs. Gilbert brought forward the most comfortable chair in her little sitting-room, and the visitor seated herself.
“I am come on an unpleasant errand, Mrs. Gilbert,” she commenced, frigidly.
“Unpleasant!” repeated the widow, with quick apprehension. “Has anything happened to my boy—to Harry?”
Improbable as it seemed that in such an event Mrs. Ross should be the messenger of ill tidings, it occurred to Mrs. Gilbert that she had come to inform her of an accident to Harry.
The visitor’s lips curled. What did it matter, she thought, whether anything happened to him or not?
“Something has happened to my boy!” she said, with emphasis.
“I am very sorry,” said the widow, with quick sympathy. “I hope he is not hurt.”
“He might have had his neck broken,” said Mrs. Ross; “and by your son,” she added, spitefully.