A silence fell on all, and looks were exchanged of mingled sorrow and perplexity.
"What is to be done?" questioned Mrs. Blake inwardly. "Some one must break the news to him before he enters the oak parlour."
Dick, in complete ignorance of the effect his words were causing, wheeled round towards the door and prepared to leave the room, when Edith stepped forward saying, "Yes; Winnie is in her own sanctum as usual. Come; I will accompany you there."
The boy stopped in amazement. "What for?" he inquired bluntly; "I would much rather go alone first."
"Yes, I know," was the confused reply; "but please humour me this once;" and Edith slipped past him as she spoke.
Dick followed, a little mystified and annoyed; but his amazement increased when Edith, opening the library door, drew him into that room and closed the door swiftly behind him.
"Bless my boots! is the girl mad?" ejaculated the boy, turning to the tables and chairs for sympathy. "I am beginning to wonder if I have fallen into the clutches of some escaped lunatic. I say, Edith, old girl, do you take those fits often?"
His sister, however, had no answering smile on her lips, and her voice shook slightly as she replied, "Dick, please prepare yourself to hear bad news. You ought to have been told before, but we kept the evil day as far off as possible. Dear little--" Then she stopped short, terrified at the expression on her brother's face.
"Don't beat about the bush, Edith," he cried in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I can bear anything better than suspense. Tell me, is Winnie dead? But no,"--glancing at his sister's shining garments--"it cannot be that, thank God;" and he drew a long sigh of relief at this point.
"No, Dick," responded Edith, giving him a glance of warm sympathy, "but--" and very simply and tenderly she broke the sad tidings to the agitated boy.
Then there tell on the silence and stillness of the room the sound of a strong heart's sobs, as Dick, in spite of all his manliness, laid his head on the table and wept like a little child.
Oh, how often, often in his lonely night-watches had he pictured this home-coming--dwelling on and gloating over each little detail as a miser does over his gold, till the whole dream-picture became beautiful with a golden glory. He saw the tiny, fairy figure flying to meet him, the quaint gipsy face glowing its joyous welcome, and the great dark eyes shining their wondrous gladness. He felt the clasp of two soft arms round his neck, the touch of warm kisses on his lips, and heard the bright, merry voice melting into sweetest tones, as words of love and tenderness were poured into his hungering ear. And this was the end of it all--his dream-picture shattered, and a young life blasted through a haughty girl's thirst for revenge.