He read it twice before he comprehended its import.
Papa left us at ten this morning, dearest.
Mother.
The friend saw the change in his face. "Not bad news?"
George lifted utterly dumfounded eyes from the yellow paper.
"My father," he said weakly. "She says--she says he's dead. I've got
to go home."
His Uncle George and the Major met him at the station when he arrived
--the first time the Major had ever come to meet his grandson. The old
gentleman sat in his closed carriage (which still needed paint) at the
entrance to the station, but he got out and advanced to grasp George's
hand tremulously, when the latter appeared. "Poor fellow!" he said,
and patted him repeatedly upon the shoulder. "Poor fellow! Poor
Georgie!"
George had not yet come to a full realization of his loss: so far, his
condition was merely dazed; and as the Major continued to pat him,
murmuring "Poor fellow!" over and over, George was seized by an almost
irresistible impulse to tell his grandfather that he was not a poodle.
But he said "Thanks," in a low voice, and got into the carriage, his
two relatives following with deferential sympathy.
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