nd
Patty, who was nearest to him, saw his face turn gray under the tan
and his lips tremble. He looked from one to the other dumbly, then
back at the sheet in his hand.

"Richard!" said Kate, with that quick intuition which leaps across
chasms of doubt and arrives definitely.

"My aunt died this afternoon," he said, his voice breaking, for he had
not the power to control it.

Nobody moved; a kind of paralysis touched them all.

"She died this afternoon, and I wasn't there." There is something
terribly pathetic in a strong man's grief.

"Dick!" John rushed to his side. "Dick, old man, there must be some
mistake."

He seized the telegram from Warrington's nerveless fingers. There was
no mistake. The telegram was signed by the family physician. Then John
did the kindliest thing in his power.

"Do you wish to be alone, Dick?"

Warrington nodded. John laid the telegram on the table, and the three
of them passed out of the room. A gust of wind, coming down from the
mountains, carried the telegram gently to the floor. Warrington,
leaning against the table, stared down at it.

What frightful things these missives are! Charged with success or
failure, riches or poverty, victory or defeat, births or deaths, they
fly to and fro around the great world hourly, on ominous and sinister
wings. A letter often fails to reach us, but a telegram, never. It is
the messenger of fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.

Death had never before looked into Warrington's life; he had viewed it
with equanimity, with a tolerant pity for those who succumbed to it,
for those whose hearts it ravaged with loneliness and longing. He had
used it frequently in his business as a property by which to arouse
the emotions of his audiences. That it should some day stand at his
side, looking into his eyes, never occurred to him. He tried to think,
to beguile himself into the belief that he should presently awake to
find it a dream. Futile expedient! She was dead; that dear, kind,
loving heart was dead. Ah! and she had died alone! A great sob choked
him. He sank into a chair and buried his face in his arms. The past
rushed over him like a vast wave. How many times had he carelessly
wounded that heart which had beat solely for him! How many times had
he given his word, only to break it! He was alone, alone; death had
severed the single tie; he was alone. Death is kind to the dead, but
harsh to the living. Presently his sighs became less regular,