"My dearest aunt, do try to compose yourself!" said John Dulan, in a trembling voice.
"Where is my son? Where is he?"
"You cannot see him to-day——"
"Yet he was at the ferry-house last night! Great God! it cannot be!" cried the mother, suddenly growing very pale and faint, "Oh, no! Merciful Providence—such sorrow cannot be in store for me? He is not——"
She could not finish the sentence, but turned a look of agonizing inquiry on John Dulan. He did not speak.
"Answer! answer! answer!" almost screamed the mother.
John Dulan turned away.
"Is my son—is my son—dead?"
"He is in heaven, I trust," sobbed John.
A shriek, the most wild, shrill and unearthly that ever came from the death-throe of a breaking heart, arose upon the air, and echoed through the woods, and the widow sunk, fainting, to the ground. They raised her up—the blood was flowing in torrents from her mouth. They bore her to the house, and laid her on the bed. John Dulan watched beside her, while the old man hastened to procure assistance.