"Oh, Madge, how can I tell you; I know it will break your heart. Oh, poor papa? Oh! Madge—is it not dreadful?"
"What do you mean, Eve?" cried Marguerite, her ashen face sufficient proof of the shock she had already undergone. "Speak, Eve; for heaven's sake tell me the worst. Is papa dead?"
"Oh worse than that, Madge—worse than that. Death is nothing in comparison!"
"Eve, I cannot stand this horrible suspense; for mercy sake, I implore you tell me the truth," cried the girl, her bosom heaving wildly and her limbs trembling so that she had to grasp the mantel beside her for support.
Mrs. Arnold then pulled the bell-rope and a servant, or rather page, answered the summons.
"Bring me that package of letters lying on the small cabinet in my boudoir," said she, with as much nonchalance as if nothing of any importance occupied her thoughts.
The boy returned and presented the desired package on a small and unique silver salver, lined with gold and enamel.
"Here it is, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, passing a somewhat lengthy telegram into the girl's hand.
The latter run her eye hastily over the contents and turned deathly pale. "Poor, dear, papa!" were all the words she could say, when an icy chill ran through the delicate frame, and the tender-hearted daughter fell into a deadly swoon.
Mrs. Arnold did feel something akin to pity when she saw the graceful form prostrate at her feet, and as she stooped down and took the cold hand in hers, murmured "poor little Madge—you were not fashioned for this decidedly calculating world. Your heart is too tender—far too tender."