"How can I tell them--how can I tell them?" he sobbed. "Our poor boy--our fine boy--our little Dick, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He died gloriously--yes, there's some consolation in that. But it doesn't wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd of ruffians leveling their guns at you--my poor lad--" He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety. "Stop!" he cried in his agony. At the moment, the study door opened gently--the soft rustle of silk--his wife. In an instant, she was at his side. "What is it--what has happened?" He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. "Dick--" "Is dead! Oh!" A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. "I knew it--I felt it coming. Oh, Dick--Dick, why did they make you go?" "He died gloriously, darling--for his country, performing an act of gallantry--volunteering to run a great risk. A hero's death." They wept in each other's arms for some moments, and the gay music stopped of its own accord. "Netty will be here in a moment, and she'll have to be told," said Mrs. Swinton. "The bishop and the others mustn't get an inkling of what has happened. Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John--send them away." "They'll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain why. Pull yourself together. We've faced trouble before, and must face this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty." "Netty! Netty!" cried his wife, with a petulance that almost shocked him. "What is she compared with Dick? And they've taken him--killed him. Oh, Dick!" Netty's voice could be heard, laughing and talking in a high key as she opened the drawing-room door. "I'll find her," she was saying, and in another moment she burst into the study. "Mother--mother, they're all asking for you. The bishop is going now. Why, what is the matter?" "Your mother and I are not very well, Netty, dear. Tell them we shall be back in a moment." "More money worries, I suppose," sighed Netty with a shrug, as she went out of the room. "You see how much Netty cares," cried Mrs. Swinton. "You're rather hard on the girl, dearest. Your heart is bitter with your loss. Let us be charitable." "But Dick!--Dick! Our boy!" she sobbed. Then, with a wonderful effort, she aroused herself, dried her eyes, and composed her features for the ordeal of facing her guests again. With remarkable self-control, she assumed her social manner as a mummer dons his mask; and, after one clasp of her husband's hand and a sympathetic look, went back to her guests with that leisurely, graceful step which was so characteristic of the popular and self-possessed Mary Swinton.