“You are acting very promptly,” Calhoun said, following him in to give the desired information in regard to the train.

“Yes, there’s not a minute to lose, Cal.”

Calhoun’s face was full of grief and anxiety.  “I think I should go, too, Art, if—­if you think there’s any probability of—­finding her alive.”

“It’s impossible to tell.  But we can hardly both be spared from home.  It should be kept from grandpa as long as possible, and if he saw us both rushing off in the direction she has taken, he would know at once that something very serious had happened her.”

“Yes, you are right, and for the first time I envy you your medical knowledge and skill.  She’s with Virginia, the message is sent by her,” glancing again at the paper which he still held in his hand.  “I’m glad of that—­that she has at least one of her children with her, if——­”

He paused and Arthur finished the sentence.  “If she will be of any use or comfort to her, you were about to say?  Well, we can only hope that so terrible an emergency has developed some hitherto unsuspected excellencies in Virginia’s character.”

A horse came galloping up the avenue.  Calhoun glanced from the window.

“Another telegram!” he cried, and both brothers dashed out upon the veranda.

This was directed to Calhoun, sent from Philadelphia by their uncle Edward Allison.  He and Adelaide would be with Mrs. Conly in two hours, telegraph at once in what condition they found her, and if practicable start with her immediately for her home.

The brothers consulted together, and Arthur decided to go on with his preparations, but delay setting out upon his journey until the coming of the promised message.

It came in due time, and from it they learned that their mother was already on her way home.

The sad tidings had now to be communicated to the other near relatives, but it was deemed best to keep them from the younger children and the feeble old father until the day when she might be expected to arrive.

As gently and tenderly as possible the old gentleman’s son broke the news to him.

He was much overcome.  “She will never get over it, I fear,” he sighed, the tears coursing down his furrowed cheeks.  “One bereavement is apt to tread closely upon the heels of another, and she will probably soon follow her sister.  But oh if I only knew that she had been washed from her sins in the precious blood of Christ, that she had accepted His invitation, ’Come unto me,’ so that death would be but falling asleep in Him, safe in His arms, safe on His gentle breast—­I think I could let her go almost willingly, for my race is well nigh run, and it can hardly be long ere I too shall get my summons home.”

“Dear father, if such be the will of God, may you be spared to us for many years yet,” returned his son with emotion.  “And Louise!  We do not know her exact condition, but let us hope that God will in His great mercy give her yet more time—­months or years—­in which to prepare for eternity.  We will cry earnestly for her, and in the name of Christ, to Him who hath said, ’I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth,’ but bids them ’Turn yourselves and live ye.’”