Neither the doctor nor Wallace could answer the question; they had not seen him since early in the day.
But while they were saying so the door-bell rang and he came in, bent, bowed down, aged with grief, till he looked an older man by ten—twenty years than when they had seen him last.
With a moan of unspeakable anguish he dropped into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands.
His daughters flew to him and enfolded him in loving arms, tears of sympathy streaming down their cheeks.
"Father, dear, dear father," they said, "oh, do not be so distressed! it may not be true."
"Alas, alas! I dare not hope it," he groaned. "My boys—my boys; would God I had died for you! My sons, oh, my sons! Such a fate! such a terrible fate!"
"But, dear father, think how happy they are now," said Mildred, weeping as she spoke.
"Yes, there is great and undeserved mercy mingled with the terrible affliction," he replied; "'they cannot return to me, but I shall go to them.' Thanks be unto God for that blessed hope! But my wife—your mother! this will kill her!"
"Dear father," said Mildred, "do not forget the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"
"We have all agreed to try to hide it from her till she is stronger," the doctor remarked. "We will have to school ourselves to look and act and speak as if no such news had reached our ears."