Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and wailing, groans and sighs.

She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense.

The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron.

“What is the matter?” asked Miss Deane impatiently.

“Dere’s—­dere’s been a awful commission on de railroad,” sobbed Aunt Phillis; “and Marse Ed’ard’s ’most killed.”

“Oh, dreadful!” cried Miss Deane.  “Have they sent for his mother?”

Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and louder sobs.

“Most killed!  Dear me!” sighed the lady.  “And he was so young and handsome!  It will quite break his mother’s heart, I suppose.  But she’ll get over it.  It takes a vast deal of grief to kill.”

“P’raps Marse Ed’ard ain’t gwine ter die,” said the old nurse, checking her sobs.  “Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin ’most raise de dead.”

“Well, I’m sure I hope Mr. Travilla won’t die,” responded Miss Deane, “or prove to be permanently injured in any way.—­Ah, Christine!” as the latter re-entered the room:  “what is all this story about a railroad accident?  Is Mr. Travilla killed?”

“No, no, he not killed,” replied Christine, in her broken English.  “How bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed.”

Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed; while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor’s report of his condition.

Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word, which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear.  She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her injured husband lay.  She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a tear would roll quickly down her cheek.

At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to her side.

“Cheer up, little cousin,” he said kindly.  “Edward seems to be doing very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and sit by his side.”

“Oh, thank you!  I’ll try,” she said, starting up at once.  “But mayn’t I talk to him at all?”

“Not much to-night,” was the reply; “not more than seems absolutely necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing that would have the least tendency to excite him.”

“Oh, then he must be very, very ill,—­terribly injured!” she cried, with a burst of tears and sobs.

“That does not necessarily follow,” Arthur said, taking her hand, and holding it in a kindly pressure.  “But you must be more composed, or,” playfully, “I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to forbid you to go to him.”

“Oh, no, no! don’t do that!” she cried pleadingly.  “I’ll be calm and quiet; indeed, indeed I will.”