"Are you there, Tom?" I heard her voice ask in a moment. Her voice, did
I say? Nay, not hers, but a voice I had never heard before,--the voice of
a woman suffocating with anguish.

"Yes, mother," I answered, "I am here."

"And you love me, do you not, Tom?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" I cried; and I thank God to this day that there was so
much of genuine feeling in my voice.

"Then if you love me, Tom," she said, "you will go back to your room
and not come near this door again. Promise me, Tom, that you will do as
I ask you."

"I promise, mother," I answered. "But what has happened? Is father dead?"

"Mr. Fontaine will be here soon," she said, "and will explain it all to
you. Now run back to your room, dearest, and go to bed."

"Yes, mother," I said again, but as I turned to go, I heard a sound which
struck me motionless. No, my father was not dead, for that was his voice
I heard, pitched far above its usual key.

"I shall never go back," he cried. "I shall never go back till he asks
me."

I felt the perspiration start from my forehead.

"Have you gone, Tom?" asked my mother's voice.