"My aunt died this afternoon," he said, his voice breaking, for he had
not the power to control it.
Nobody moved; a kind of paralysis touched them all.
"She died this afternoon, and I wasn't there." There is something
terribly pathetic in a strong man's grief.
"Dick!" John rushed to his side. "Dick, old man, there must be some
mistake."
He seized the telegram from Warrington's nerveless fingers. There was
no mistake. The telegram was signed by the family physician. Then John
did the kindliest thing in his power.
"Do you wish to be alone, Dick?"
Warrington nodded. John laid the telegram on the table, and the three
of them passed out of the room. A gust of wind, coming down from the
mountains, carried the telegram gently to the floor. Warrington,
leaning against the table, stared down at it.
What frightful things these missives are! Charged with success or
failure, riches or poverty, victory or defeat, births or deaths, they
fly to and fro around the great world hourly, on ominous and sinister
wings. A letter often fails to reach us, but a telegram, never. It is
the messenger of fate, whose emissaries never fail to arrive.
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