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Kemble's door.
The old banker came out to meet him, shaking his gray head and
holding the paper in his trembling hand. "Ah!" he groaned, "I've
feared it, I've feared it all along, but hoped that it would not
be. You've seen Nichol's name--" but he could not finish the
sentence.
"No, I have seen nothing; I only heard Helen's cry. That told the
whole story."
"Yes. Well, her mother's with her. Poor girl! poor girl! God grant
it isn't her death-blow too. She has suffered too much under this
long strain of anxiety."
A generous resolve was forming in Martine's mind, and he said
earnestly, "We must tide her through this terrible shock. There
may be some mistake; he may be only wounded. Do not let her give
up hope absolutely. I'll drop everything and go to the battlefield
at once. If the worst has in truth happened, I can bring home his
remains, and that would be a comfort to her. A newspaper report,
made up hastily in the field, is not final. Let this hope break
the cruel force of the blow, for it is hard to live without hope.


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