"Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse!" said one. "Anything is better
than this. Speak!"
"My children! I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poor
Mr. Harry is brought home"--
"Brought home--BROUGHT home--how?" Instinctively they sank their
voices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. In the same low
tone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate
things which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear,
she answered--
"Dead!"
Amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to
know if such a tale could be true; and when she read its
confirmation in those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank,
without word or sound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sister
sat down on an ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it.
That was Sophy. Helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her
head in the pillows, tried to stifle the screams and moans which
shook her frame.
The nurse stood silent. She had not told ALL.
"Tell me," said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice,
which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! Is he DEAD, did you
say? Have you sent for a doctor? Oh! send for one, send for one,"
continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her
feet.
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