"Why, why, Charles, darling--why do you ask for him?" she said, wildly,
grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified
expression.

"Why--why, he could tell me the particulars of this horrible
tragedy," answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm
and surprise, "as far as they have been as yet collected. How is he,
mother--is he well?"

"Oh, yes, quite well, thank God," she answered, more collectedly--"quite
well, but, of course, greatly, dreadfully shocked."

"I will go to him, mother; I will see him," said he, turning
towards the door.

"He has been wretchedly depressed and excited for some days," said Mrs.
Marston, dejectedly, "and this dreadful occurrence will, I fear, affect
him most deplorably."

The young man kissed her tenderly and affectionately, and hurried down to
the library, where his father usually sat when he desired to be alone, or
was engaged in business. He opened the door softly. His father was
standing at one of the windows, his face haggard as from a night's
watching, unkempt and unshorn, and with his hands thrust into his
pockets. At the sound of the revolving door he started, and seeing his
son, first recoiled a little, with a strange, doubtful expression, and
then rallying, walked quickly towards him with a smile, which had in it
something still more painful.