She turned her face up to him at this in speechless misery. She had shed no tears over what she had heard; the horror of it had seemed to scorch and burn them up at their very fountain. Her eyes were heavy, her face perfectly hueless, her lips parched and drawn, her hands hot and burning.
That one look of hers, so piteous and full of anguish, unmanned Earle completely, and, dropping his head upon the pillow beside hers, sob after sob broke from him.
At the sight of his suffering, woman-like, she forgot her own in a measure.
She put up her hot hand and laid it caressingly against his cheek, and cried:
“Earle—Earle—don’t! I cannot bear it if you give way so. God will help us; He will send no more upon us than He is willing to give us strength to bear. But, oh!” she added, wildly, “that I should have to call such a man father.”
“My darling, that is a sorrow that we share in common,” Earle answered, with an effort at self-control.
“I am glad mamma is dead. I am glad Uncle Richard is dead. How could they have borne this?” Editha moaned.
“Your Uncle Richard would have counseled us what to do, dear; he would have been a help to us,” Earle replied, feeling deeply the need of such a friend as Richard Forrester would have been.
“I believe he would have killed papa if he had lived to know of all this. I have been told that his temper was fearful when once aroused,” Editha said, with a shudder.
“He is not here, and we must take counsel of each other. My darling we have some stern facts to look in the face. All——”