CHAPTER IX.
THE AMERICAN MAIL.
Judy had, clasped in her arms, a package of mail, unopened except for the letter on top, which was the one that poor, brave Mrs. Brown had written her. She had kept throughout the letter the same gallant spirit of belief in her son’s safety, but Judy could not take that view.
“Gone! Gone! and all because of poor miserable, no-account me!” her heart cried out in its anguish, but she shed no tear and made no sound. Her face, glowing with health and spirits only a few minutes ago, was now as pale as a ghost and her eyes had lost their sparkle.
Père Tricot hastened towards her as she came slowly down the street.
“My dear little girl, what is it?”
“He is drowned and all for me—just my stubbornness!”
“Who? Your father?”
“No!”
“Your brother, then?”