"Charles fell from El Capitan," it ran. "Body brought here. ROSE."
For a moment the man gazed fixedly, deliberately but absently crushing the envelope in one hand, while the other held the open message before him. Then his lips moved slowly and without uttering a sound, they framed the words of his thought: "Charles!—Dead!—Merciful God!"
For a reflective interval the gray, startled eyes set themselves on distance and then turned again to the message. It was dated April 4.
April 4? What day was this?
On the dresser was an unopened newspaper. John remembered now he had bought it yesterday, or rather he assumed it was yesterday. The date upon the paper was April 14. If it were yesterday he bought that paper, to-day was the 15th, and Charles had been dead eleven days! What had they thought—what had they done without a word from him in this crisis? What had become of them?
And there were unopened letters on the dresser, three of them, all from Rose. John tore them open, lapping up their contents with his eyes.
"Poor, poor Rose!" he groaned. "What must she think of me?"
The first letter told of the death of Charles and the lucky sale of "Dawn in the Grand Canyon" which afforded money for the recovery of the body and its decent interment, but little more.
The second letter was briefer and expressed surprise at not hearing from him in response to her message, which the telegraph company assured her had been delivered to him in person. This letter showed Rose bearing up under her grief and stoutly making plans for taking up the support of her children.
The third letter was addressed by the hand of Rose, but the brief note enclosed was penned by the kind-hearted Doctor Morrison, the railroad's "company" physician, to whom, as a part of his outside practice, Rose would have applied in case of illness.