He winced at the address: “Bret Winfield, Esq., care of Miss Sheila Kemble, Opera House, Bay City.” He forgot the pinch of pride when he read the message:
Please come home at once your father dangerously ill and asking for you.
Mother.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Sheila saw the anguish of dread cover his face like a sudden fling of ashes. He handed the telegram to her, and she put her arms about his shoulders to uphold him and shelter him from the sledge of fate.
“Poor old dad!” he groaned. “And mother! I must take the first train.”
She nodded her head dismally.
He read the telegram again in a stupor, and mumbled, “I wish you could come with me.”
“If I only could!”
“You ought to,” he urged.