I cannot be mistaken in his step.
What can have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick." And
she arose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden
fear came into my heart.
"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in an
alarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself
across the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which
it was buried deeply.
"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"Oh, father! dear father!" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's,
and bursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I
leaned over, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was
cold also, and clammy with perspiration.
"Send James for the doctor, instantly," said my mother.
"No, no--don't." My father partially aroused himself at this,
speaking in a thick, unnatural voice.
"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with
the order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family
physician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was
endeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together
we took off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance,
and appearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of
some drug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that
wore a deathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to
rekindle the failing spark of life.
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