Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs.
She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense.
The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron.
"What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently.
"Dere's—dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt
Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed."
"Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?"
Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs.
"Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill."
"P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead."
"Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane, "or prove to be permanently injured in any way.—Ah, Christine!" as the latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?"