"What do you mean?" said he, startled into an impatient
consciousness that something was wrong. "One of you says he is not
come home, and the other says he is. Now, that's nonsense! Tell me
at once what's the matter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is he
thrown? Speak, child, can't you?"
"No! he's not been thrown, papa," said Sophy sadly.
"But he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his
anxiety to a point.
"Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastily
rising, as if to leave the room.
"Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but I'm afraid---I believe it's
of no use."
He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth.
His son, his only son, was dead.
He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed
his head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook and
rattled under his agony.
Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.
"Go! you are not Harry," said he; but the action roused him.
"Where is he? where is the"--said he, with his strong face set into
the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.
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