Mrs. Hartrick took it out of her pocket. Nora clutched it very hard, but her trembling fingers could scarcely take the little flimsy pink sheet out of its envelope. At last she had managed it. She spread it before her; then she found that her dazed eyes could not see the words. What was the misery of the morning to the agony of this moment?
“Read it for me,” she said in a piteous voice. “I—I cannot see.”
“Sit down, my dear; you will faint if you don't.”
“Oh! everything is going round. Is he—is he dead?”
“No, dear; nothing very wrong.”
“Read—read!” said Nora.
Mrs. Hartrick did read. The following words fell upon the Irish girl's ears:
“O'Shanaghgan was shot at from behind a hedge this, morning. Seriously injured. Break it to Nora.”
“I must go to him,” said Nora, jumping up. “When is the next train? Why didn't you tell me before? I must go—I must go at once.”
Now that the worst of the news was broken, she had recovered her courage and some calmness.