"No, it's not her," Bill hastened to say. "It's her mother."
Jap stumbled awkwardly up the walk to the Granger home. The letters from Isabel had been far from reassuring, and only the previous day Dr. Hall had sounded a warning that the care of the invalid was too much for the girl, taxed as she was in both mind and body. Into Jap's consciousness there crept the thought that she had never fully recovered from those terrible weeks when she hovered over him.
Tom Granger met him at the door. His eyes were red with weeping. He drew Jap into the parlor and gave him two telegrams.
"This came at midnight," he said brokenly. Jap read:
"Mother sinking. Come. ISABEL."
"And this just arrived," Granger choked, as the fatal words met Jap's eye:
"Mother dying. Come. Bring Jap. ISABEL."
"The train leaves in half an hour. I don't have to ask you anything, my boy."
Jap turned and hastened away. He did not weaken Granger's feeble strength with words of sympathy.
It was the afternoon of the second day when the two stood with Isabel at the foot of the bed. Alice Granger lifted her heavy lids, and a gleam of recognition shone in her eyes. Swiftly those two, the husband and the child, drew near, eager for any word that might pass the stiffening lips. Jap stood looking sorrowfully down on her as they knelt at her side.