“Who shot him?”
“One of the workmen. They have him. Carl Olfsen found him.”
“One of the workmen, when he has always been so good!”
Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd seemed to gather herself together into the strength of action.
“Are they bringing him home?” she asked Ellen, in a sharp, decisive voice.
“I think they must be by this time.”
“Then I've got to get ready for him. Come, quick.”
There was by that time a man and two women servants standing near them, aghast. Mrs. Lloyd turned to the man.
“Go down to the drug-store and get some brandy, there isn't any in the house,” said she; “then come back as quick as you can. Maggie, you see that there is plenty of hot water. Martha, you and Ellen come up-stairs with me, quick.”
Ellen followed Mrs. Lloyd and the maid up-stairs, and, before she knew what she was doing, was assisting to put the room in perfect readiness for the wounded man. The maid was weeping all the time she worked, although she had never liked Mr. Lloyd. There was something about her mistress which was fairly abnormal. She kept looking at her. This gentle, soft-natured woman had risen above her own pain and grief to a sublime strength of misery.