“I’d no idea they were so poor,” said Adelaide to herself, as the door closed upon Alice. “I wish he would send the money so I could pay the debt and have it off my mind.”
Just then the village omnibus stopped at the door, and Adelaide ran for a moment to show her mother how she looked, then gathering up the folds of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her shawl, she entered the carriage and was soon riding toward the scene of gayety, while Alice Warren was hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into her heart, and vaguely whispering that the morrow, for which she had been so anxious, might bring her a sorrow such as orphans only know.
CHAPTER IX.
THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE.
For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for water with which to quench his burning thirst.
“Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no sound save the steady ticking of the clock.
Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he called:
“Alice, Alice, are you here?”
But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now. Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned:
“Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?”