“I know—I know. There, lean on me; the dressing-room is close by.” Georgiana was crying softly as she spoke; and she wound her arm around that poor girl, supporting her tenderly as Robert followed them to the dressing-room door. Patiently, and with tears stealing down his face, the boy waited for his sister. She came out directly in her brown dress and modest bonnet. “They want me to wait for a carriage, Robert; but I cannot—I cannot. You and I will go alone.” “No,” said a voice at her elbow. “Come, both of you, I have a carriage ready.” Anna looked up, and Savage caught a glimpse of her face. It was white and quivering, like a white rose wet with rain. “My poor child, this is terrible!” he said, folding the thin shawl around her; “but you shall not bear it alone, you have friends.” Anna gave him a grateful look through her tears, and fresh sobs broke to her lips. “It may be possible that there is a mistake in the record,” said Savage, making a desperate effort to comfort her. Anna looked up suddenly with a gleam of light in her eyes; but her head drooped on the moment, and she answered sadly. “I feel that he is dead! If he were alive, there would be some warmth _here_.” A carriage waited near the entrance of the fair, and young Savage lifted her in. Then he made way for Robert, and when the lad hesitated, took him up bodily and landed him on the front seat. It was a gloomy ride; few words were spoken, and those were lost in sobs. “How can I tell her? Oh! it will kill my grandmother. He was her only son—all she had in the wide, wide world.” Savage took the two hands which Anna clasped in her lap, and pressed them between his. “Shall I tell her for you?” he said, gently. “No; that would be cruel.” “I—I will do it,” sobbed Robert, who was huddled up in a corner of the carriage. “It is my place, for I am all the man left to take care of her. When there is any thing hard to do, I must do it; and I will.” “That is a brave boy,” said Savage. “No, sir, I’m not brave. I tremble all over at the thought of telling her; but I’ll do it,” sobbed the boy. “Poor little Joseph, too; how he will feel when he knows how it is. Oh, sir! you’d be sorry for little Joseph, if you knew how miserable this will make him. He won’t eat a morsel for days and days. He’s so delicate—Joseph is—like a girl.” “Yes, Robert, I can understand that,” said Savage. “It is all very pitiful; but, remember, your father died for his country!” “Oh! I wish it had been me—I wish it had been me,” cried the boy, with a fresh outburst of grief. They were at the door now, close by the gloomy entrance of that tenement-house, which was darker than ever to those unhappy young creatures. Savage went with them to the door. There he hesitated, reluctant to leave them. He feared to intrude on their grief. “Shall I bid you good-night?” he said, addressing Robert rather than Anna.