Yes, Will Stafford; but so changed that she almost screamed as she saw him. Worn, haggard, and ghastly; with convulsed brow, white lips, and despairing eyes; with such a look of passionate grief, anguish, and despair that the scream was frozen on her lips; and white, rigid, and speechless, she stood staring, unable to utter a word.
Without speaking, almost without looking at her, he threw himself into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
Oh! what meant that look, that action, that ominous silence? For one moment the sight seemed leaving Mrs. Brantwell's eyes—the power of life seemed dying out in her heart; but by a mighty effort of her will she resisted the deadly faintness that was creeping over her, and asked, in a voice so low and tremulous, that it was almost inaudible:
"What of Sibyl?"
A groan, that seemed to rend the heart from which it came, burst from the lips of Stafford.
"What of Sibyl?" repeated Mrs. Brantwell, breathing hard, in her effort to be calm.
"Oh! Mrs. Brantwell, do not ask!" exclaimed Stafford, in a stifling voice.
"Sibyl, Sibyl!" were the only words the white, quivering lips could utter.
"Oh! how can I tell her?" cried Stafford, springing up, and wildly beginning to pace the room.
"Sibyl! what of her?" wailed Mrs. Brantwell, pressing her hands to her heart.