"No, no. It's worse, Anne, worse," he murmured hoarsely.
"Oh! for God's sake tell me, Tom! or I shall die."
"It is Vavasour," he said, as he took her in his arms and held her to his heart. "Forgive me for having frightened you so, Anne. But Vavasour has been shot."
"Thank God you are well?" said Anne, bursting into tears, "But, oh, Amy! my poor darling Amy!"
CHAPTER XV.
THE LAST OF LITTLE BERTIE.
"She put him on a snow-white shroud, A chaplet on his head; And gathered only primroses To scatter o'er the dead.
She laid him in his little grave— 'Twas hard to lay him there: When spring was putting forth its flowers, And everything was fair.
And down within the silent grave, He laid his weary head; And soon the early violets Grew o'er his grassy bed.