However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shaded
light of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked
features, while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson
morocco of the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had dropped
on the carpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply.

At that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans's song came full in Sophy's
mind--

"Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back
From the realms unseen by you,
To life's dim weary track."

But this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more
than dim and weary, hereafter.

"Papa," said she softly. He did not stir.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, somewhat louder.

He started up, half awake.

"Tea is ready, is it?" and he yawned.

"No! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!"

He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered,
and did not see the expression of her face.