Mrs. Johnson hurried from the room, Betty following close at her heels, and Molly was left alone in her grief and weariness.
She watched the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, then turning from the window, indulged in a hearty cry.
At length, exhausted by her emotion, she laid her head back and fell asleep in her chair.
How long she had slept she did not know; some unusual noise down-stairs woke her, and the next moment Betty rushed in screaming, "Oh, Molly, Molly, mother and grandfather's killed; both of 'em! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
For an instant Molly seemed stunned, she scarcely comprehended Betty's words, then as the child repeated, "They're killed! they're both killed; the horses ran away and threw 'em out," she too uttered a cry of anguish, and grasping the arms of her chair, made desperate efforts to rise; but all in vain, and with a groan she sank back, and covering her face with her hands, shed the bitterest tears her impotence had ever yet cost her.
Betty had run away again, and she was all alone. Oh, how hard it was for her to be chained there in such an agony of doubt and distress! She forcibly restrained her groans and sobs, and listened intently.
The Conlys, except Cal, were still at the North; the house seemed strangely quiet, only now and then a stealthy step or a murmur of voices and occasionally a half smothered cry from Bob or Betty.
A horseman came dashing furiously up the avenue. It was her uncle, Mr. Horace Dinsmore. He threw himself from the saddle and hurried into the house, and the next minute two more followed at the same headlong pace.
These were Cal and Dr. Barton, and they also dismounted in hot haste and disappeared from her sight beneath the veranda. Certainly something very dreadful had happened. Oh would nobody come to tell her!
The minutes dragged their slow length along seeming like hours. She lay back in her chair in an agony of suspense, the perspiration standing in cold drops on her brow.