"Oh, Mary!" the little one had cried, with childish directness, as soon as she entered the room. "Oh, Mary! I have heard bad news!"
"I am very sorry for you, dear," said Golden, gently.
Ruby looked up into the face of her uncle, where it hung against the wall.
"Oh, poor Uncle Bertie!" she sighed.
"Was it about Mr. Chesleigh, Ruby?" she inquired.
"Yes," said the child. "Mamma has had a telegram from some people about him. He is very sick, and he is away down south at a place called Glenalvan Hall."
Golden drew her breath heavily, and sank into a chair. It seemed as if an arrow had pierced her heart. She could not speak, but stared at Ruby with a dumb misery in her eyes, that the little one could in nowise understand.
"Some of us will have to go to him—mamma and papa, I suppose," continued Ruby. "I asked mamma to let me go, but she says it would be too warm for me at this time of the year in the south, because I am so delicate."
"Is he very sick? Will he die?" inquired Golden, speaking in a strange, unnatural voice.
"They hope not, but he is very sick," said Ruby; and at that moment Mrs. Desmond swept into the room.