"Ah!" he gasped at last, drawing a long breath, his hands still tightly clenched, his countenance haggard and drawn. "I—I expected that. And so it has come—at last!"
"What, dad?" asked the girl in surprise, staring at the crisp typewritten sheet before her.
"Oh, well, nothing child—nothing," he answered, bestirring himself.
"But the lady whoever she is, seems terribly concerned about her little boy. The judgment of Heaven, she calls it."
"And well she may, Gabrielle," he answered in a hoarse strained voice.
"Well she may, my dear. It is a punishment sent upon the wicked."
"Is the mother wicked, then?" asked the girl in curiosity.
"No, dear," he urged. "Don't try to understand, for you can never do that. These reports convey to me alone the truth. They are intended to mislead you, as they mislead other people."
"Then there is no little boy suffering from scarlet-fever?"
"Yes. Because it is written there," was his smiling reply. "But it only refers to an imaginary child, and, by so doing, places a surprising and alarming truth before me."
"Is the matter so very serious, dad?" she asked, noticing the curious effect the words had had upon him.