Maud’s first impulse was to go out to meet the body of the captain, and to ascertain for herself that there was actually no longer any hope.  Nick’s account had been so laconic as to leave much obscurity, and the blow had been so sudden she could hardly credit the truth in its full extent.  Still, there remained the dreadful tidings to be communicated to those dear beings, who, while they feared so much, had never anticipated a calamity like this.  Even Mrs. Willoughby, sensitive as she was, and wrapped up in those she loved so entirely, as she was habitually, had been so long accustomed to see and know of her husband’s exposing himself with impunity, as to begin to feel, if not to think, that he bore a charmed life.  All this customary confidence was to be overcome, and the truth was to be said.  Tell the fact to her mother, Maud felt that she could not then; scarcely under any circumstances would she have consented to perform this melancholy office; but, so long as a shadow of doubt remained on the subject of her father’s actual decease, it seemed cruel even to think of it.  Her decision was to send for Beulah, and it was done by means of one of the negresses.

So long as we feel that there are others to be sustained by our fortitude, even the feeblest possess a firmness to which they might otherwise be strangers.  Maud, contrary to what her delicate but active frame and sweetness of disposition might seem to indicate, was a young woman capable of the boldest exertions, short of taking human life.  Her frontier training had raised her above most of the ordinary weaknesses of her sex; and, so far as determination went, few men were capable of higher resolution, when circumstances called for its display.  Her plan was now made up to go forth and meet the body, and nothing short of a command from her mother could have stopped her.  In this frame of mind was our heroine, when Beulah made her appearance.

“Maud!” exclaimed the youthful matron, “what has happened!—­why are you so pale!—­why send for me?  Does Nick bring us any tidings from the mill?”

“The worst possible, Beulah.  My father—­my dear, dear father is hurt.  They have borne him as far as the edge of the woods, where they have halted, in order not to take us by surprise.  I am going to meet the—­to meet the men, and to bring father in.  You must prepare mother for the sad, sad tidings—­yes, Beulah, for the worst, as everything depends on the wisdom and goodness of God!”

“Oh!  Maud, this is dreadful!” exclaimed the sister, sinking into a chair—­“What will become of mother—­of little Evert—­of us all!”

“The providence of the Ruler of heaven and earth will care for us.  Kiss me, dear sister—­how cold you are—­rouse yourself, Beulah, for mother’s sake.  Think how much more she must feel than we possibly can, and then be resolute.”

“Yes, Maud—­very true—­no woman can feel like a wife—­unless it be a mother—­”