A cry of angry incredulity came from Daisie’s lips.
“It is not true. This is some new plot against me. I will not go!”
But just then Mrs. Bell jerked open the front door, and held an anxious colloquy with the young man.
As a result of it, she came upstairs presently, exclaiming:
“It is all true, Daisie. That young man is a preacher, so, of course, he wouldn’t tell you a lie! Royall Sherwood was shot to-night—shot in the back as he was walking along with his cousin—and they think he is dying. He begs for you, and, my dear, you can’t refuse to go.”
No, she could not refuse. The wishes of the dying are sacred.
But her lips trembled so with the shock that she could hardly stand upright. Aunt Alice helped her to put on a warm, dark gown suited to the chilly midnight hour, and supported her feeble steps down the stairs.
“You will come with me?” she said, in a dazed way, and the old woman assented readily.
The young minister helped them into the carriage, entered himself, and the door was closed. The driver whipped up his horses, and then Mrs. Bell asked, in a tone of awe:
“Who was the wretch that did it?”