A few minutes later Mildred, passing out of the house on her way to her own home, met her husband at the gate.
He gave her his arm almost without a word, nor did he speak during their short walk; but Mildred's thoughts were busy, and she scarcely noticed his silence.
It was too dark in the street to see his face, but on entering their own sitting-room, where a bright light was burning, she caught sight of it, and its pale, distressed look struck terror to her heart.
"O Charlie, what is it?" she cried, dropping her cloak upon the floor and throwing off her bonnet, then putting her arms about his neck and gazing with frightened, questioning eyes into his that were full of anguish.
"My darling, I don't know how to tell you," he said hoarsely, holding her close.
"My brothers?" she gasped, turning pale as death.
He bowed a silent assent.
"What—what is it?" she asked, scarcely able to articulate.
"The very worst," he said. "Yet stay; it may not be true; but there is a dreadful report about town, that the train was attacked by Indians and several killed—"
"Rupert and Don among them?" she faltered, half-inquiringly, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.