CHAPTER XXXV.
“HE IS FICKLE AND FALSE—MY LOVER WHOM I TRUSTED SO FONDLY!—HOW CAN I BEAR THIS PAIN AND LIVE?”
Mr. Beresford, when he saw himself discovered, advanced to the bedside.
He was a tall, portly gentleman, with kind brown eyes and a pleasant face that beamed with joy as he said:
“A letter from Alva at last!”
His wife sunk back in her chair and eagerly perused it. Then she handed it to her husband, and turned again to her son.
“I suppose Alva is at Newport?” he said, trying to bring his thoughts back from the painful theme that held them—the loss of his darling.
But it was hard to remember anything else now, when sorrow was at its flood-tide, sweeping like a torrent over his heart.
“No; Alva is at home. She will not leave New York till we return,” his mother returned.
“But she will be very lonely, I fear.”