pened to my
father--do not, Traverse!--do not!"

"Oh, Clara, try to be firm, dear one!"

"My father! Oh, my father!--he is dead!" shrieked Clara, starting up
wildly to run, she knew not whither.

Traverse sprang up and caught her arm and drawing her gently back to her
seat, said:

"No, dear Clara--no, not so bad as that--he is living!"

"Oh, thank heaven for so much! What is it, then, Traverse? He is ill!
Oh, let me go to him!"

"Stay, dear Clara--compose yourself first! You would not go and disturb
him with this frightened and distressed face of yours--let me get you a
glass of water," said Traverse, starting up and bringing the needed
sedative from an adjoining room.

"There, Clara, drink that and offer a silent prayer to heaven to give
you self-control."

"I will--oh, I must for his sake! But tell me, Traverse, is it--is it as
I fear--as he expected--apoplexy?"

"No, dear love--no. He rode out this morning and his horse got
frightened by the van of a circus company that was going into the town,
and----"

"And ran away with him and threw him! Oh, heaven! Oh, my dear father!"
exclaimed Clara, once more clasping her hands wildly, and starting up.

Again Traverse promptly but gently detained her, saying:

"You promised me to be calm, dear Clara, and you must be so, before I
can suffer you to see your father."

Clara sank into her seat and covered her face with her hands, murmuring,
in a broken voice:

"How can I be? Oh, how can I be, when my heart is with grief and fright?
Traverse! Was he--was he--oh, dread to ask you! Oh, was he much hurt?"

"Clara, love, his injuries are internal! Neither he nor I yet know their
full extent. I have sent off for two old and experienced practitioners
from Staunton. I expect them every moment. In the mean time, I have done
all that is possible for his relief."

"Traverse," said Clara, very calmly, controlling herself by an almost
superhuman effort, "Traverse, I will be composed; you shall see that I
will; take me to my dear father's bedside; it is there that I ought to
be!"

"That is my dear, brave, dutiful girl! Come, Clara!" replied the young
man, taking her hand and leading her up to the bed-chamber of the
doctor. They met Mrs. Rocke at the door, who tearfully signed them to go
in as she left it.

When they entered and approached the bedside, Traverse saw that the
suffering but heroic father must have made some superlative effort
before he could have reduced h