A lady with a sweet, gentle face was sitting at the table, darning stockings by the light of the lamp. On the opposite side of the table, with her back to the window and busily engaged in the same occupation, was his companion of the afternoon, Marjorie Douglas; whilst leaning back in an armchair by the fire, with her feet on the fender and a book in her hand, was a pretty fair-haired girl whom he concluded was the younger sister.
Only one glance—and yet the picture of cosy home comfort impressed itself upon him. He even noticed the bricks and tin soldiers on the floor, left behind by the child who had gone to bed.
And now he had come to bring a blight upon their quiet happiness! Had it been possible, even at the last moment, he would have turned back. But it was not possible, for a promise made to the dead was surely too sacred to be disregarded. Whatever it cost him, that promise must be fulfilled.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly servant to whom he handed his card, which she at once carried to her mistress.
"Come in, please, sir," she said, as she opened the door of the room into which he had looked.
All three ladies rose as he entered, and Mrs. Douglas said—
"Are you the son of my husband's old friend in Sheffield?"
He told her that he was, and then informed her of his father's death. When she had expressed her regret for this, he told her, as gently as he could, the sad news that he had to bring her, and gave her the message from the dying bed, telling her at the same time that all his poor father's money had been embarked in the same concern, and assuring her of the old man's deep sorrow at what had occurred. He also told her how he had made him promise to acquaint her of the loss by word of mouth, instead of sending the bad news in a letter.
She listened very quietly, and almost as if she were mentally stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her. For some minutes she did not speak, and then she asked—
"Are you sure there is no hope of recovering anything?"