"What is it, Russell? What is it?"
He took the cold little hands tremblingly in his, and endeavoured to draw her back to the hearth, but she repeated—
"What has happened? Is it father, or Hugh?"
"Your father is well, I believe; I passed him on the road yesterday. Sit down, Miss Huntingdon; you look pale and faint."
Her fingers closed tightly over his; he saw an ashen hue settle on her face, and in an unnaturally calm low tone, she asked—
"Is Hugh dead? Oh, my God! why don't you speak, Russell?"
"He did not suffer much; his death was too sudden."
Her face had such a stony look that he would have passed his arm around her, but could not disengage his hand; she seemed to cling to it as if for strength.
"Won't you let me carry you to your room, or call a servant? You are not able to stand."
She neither heeded nor heard him.