"Oh, it's nothing, dear; I think I am a little overworked. As soon as I can dispose of the Farley case I shall try and get away, but it is too important to leave before it is decided. Is there any news in this morning's paper?"
"Nothing very startling, except I see the death of your friend Miss Easton, in Washington."
"What!" Jack fairly grasped the table for support. "Impossible! There is some mistake." He was now deathly white.
"Perhaps there is some mistake; but
here is the notice," and she handed him the paper.
Hurriedly he ran his eye along the death notices until he came to this one:
"Easton, Violet.—On the 17th day of March, at the residence of her father, K Street, Washington, of diphtheria, aged twenty-three years. Notice of funeral hereafter."
For some time he sat there as if stunned, until his wife broke in upon his thoughts.
"It seems to me," she said, "that you take this matter very much to heart."
He did not answer her, but soon excused himself, and left the table.