u for a
minute; come with me, cherie."

Still Erica noticed nothing; did not detect the tone of pity, did not
wonder at the terms of endearment which were generally reserved for more
private use. She followed madame into the hall, still chattering gayly.

"The 'David Copperfield' is for monsieur's present tomorrow," she said,
laughingly. "I knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so I got him
a translation."

"My dear," said madame, taking her hand, "try to be quiet a moment. I--I
have something to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your father is
arrived--"

"Father! Father here!" exclaimed Erica, in a transport of delight.
"Where is he, where? Oh, madame, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Mme. Lemercier tried in vain to detain her, as with cheeks all glowing
with happiness and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the salon.

"Father!" she cried, throwing open the door and running to meet him.
Then suddenly she stood quite still as if petrified.

Beside the crackling wood fire, his arms on the chimney piece, his face
hidden, stood a gray-haired man. He raised himself as she spoke. His
news was in his face; it was written all too plainly there.

"Father!" gasped Erica in a voice which seemed altogether different from
the first exclamation, almost as if it belonged to a different person.

Raeburn took her in his arms.

"My child--my poor little Eric!" he said.

She did not speak a word, but clung to him as though to keep herself
from falling. In one instant it seemed as though her whole world had
been wrecked, her life shattered. She could not even realize that
her father was still left to her, except in so far as the mere bodily
support was concerned. He was strong; she clung to him as in a hurricane
she would have clung to a rock.

"Say it," she gasped, after a timeless silence, perhaps of minutes,
perhaps of hours, it might have been centuries for aught she knew. "Say
it in words."

She wanted to know everything, wanted to reduce this huge, overwhelming
sorrow to something intelligible. Surely in words it would not be so
awful--so limitless.

And he said it, speaking in a low, repressed voice, yet very tenderly,
as if she had been a little child. She made a great effort to listen,
but the sentences only came to her disjointedly and as if from a great
distance. It had been very sudden--a two hours' illness, no very great
suffering. He had been lecturing at Birmingham--had been telegraphed
for