Neither she nor Leslie liked the strange blank look in poor old John Lawton's eyes. The blow had stunned him seemingly. Yet he was observant enough about anything affecting his Letitia, and Sybil Van Camp had felt tears springing to her eyes when, having to enter Mrs. Lawton's sleeping-room, she saw John catch up the little bottle of rouge vinaigre from the toilet-table and hide it in his pocket. "Poor, loyal old gentleman!" she thought; "as if all her world did not know that Letitia Lawton rouged!" The absence of his worshipped children made the burden of his grief almost unbearable. He knew that Dorothy was to be deceived, if possible, for a few days, so that she might have undiminished strength and courage for the great trial she was approaching so rapidly; but Sybil--"where was Sybil?" That was all he said, muttering the words very low. He could give no assistance to anyone, could not tell where anything could be found; only he could not be kept away from that white, still thing, that he looked at with such blank, piteously faded eyes, as though he were trying to trace in it some resemblance to the light, frivolous but vivid Letitia, who for twenty-four years had talked him to sleep o' nights, and whose silence now was so sudden and so cruel. Once Leslie, coming softly in to try again to lead the old man away, overheard him murmuring: "She does not come--they are both independent of me now. I--I--think I'll just go with you Letitia, my dear!" and, frightened, he turned and sought Mrs. Van Camp. And that wise woman answered: "You see, you were in error trying to hide this disaster to Mr. Thrall from him. He thinks Sybil neglects him. The shock will not break him entirely, as you imagine, but it will arouse him to a desire to help his child." "Right!" exclaimed Leslie. "That's the dear old chap all over! We must make him believe her welfare depends wholly upon his protection and care--or, indeed, Mrs. Van Camp, I fear he will--well, let us say, let go!" And so the kindly conspirators planned that, as the death of Mr. Thrall could scarcely be kept from Dorothy's knowledge, and if she learned of it she would think her mother was with Sybil for a few days, the shattered old man Lawton should be made to believe Sybil's welfare depended entirely upon him; and Sybil,--poor child!--crushed as she was, would see at a glance that her father's life depended upon her loving companionship. And then they led the old gentleman from the darkened room out to the porch, and, each holding one of his hands, they told him of the accidental shooting of Mr. Thrall, of the crushing effect of the double blow upon Sybil. But before their story was done he was drawing his hands away and crying: "My little girl! my little girl! I must go to you at once!" and it required the repeated assurance of Mrs. Van Camp that his child would come to him by an early train next morning to keep him from hurrying to the city.