The day following their arrival at home Violet came in from a round of calls that she had been making, and, feeling too weary to go up to her room just then, she threw herself into a comfortable chair in the library, and took up a paper that lay on the table.
Almost the first words that caught her eye, and sent a thrill of horror through her, were these:
"DIED—On the 12th instant, at her home, No. —— Hughes street, Mary Ida Richardson, aged 48 years and 9 months. Funeral from her late residence, the 14th, at 2 o'clock P. M."
A cry of pain broke from Violet as she read this.
Her dear, kind friend dead! Gone away out of the world into eternity, and she would never see her again!
It did not seem possible; she could not believe it. Poor Wallace, too! how desolate he would be! And, bowing her face upon her hands, the young girl sobbed as if her heart was broken.
All at once, however, she started to her feet.
The fact that this was the 14th had suddenly forced itself upon her. The paper was two days old.
Glancing at the clock she saw that it was half-past twelve; but she might be in time for the last sad services for the dead if she should hasten.
Mrs. Mencke was out, as usual, and Violet was glad of it, for she knew that she would oppose and might even flatly forbid her going.