This same question Ruth had asked herself a dozen times.  Jack was to have had charge of the battery—­he had told her so.  Was he one of the killed?—­why didn’t somebody tell her?—­why hadn’t Mr. Bolton said something?—­why—­why—­Then the picture of her father’s mangled body would rise before her and all thought of Jack pass out of her mind.

As the train rolled into the grimy station she was the first to spring from the car; she knew the way best, and the short cut from the station to where her father lay.  Her face was drawn; her eyes bloodshot from restrained tears—­all the color gone from her cheeks.

“You bring Aunt Felicia, Uncle Peter,—­and the bags;—­I will go ahead,” she said, tying her veil so as to shield her face.  “No, I won’t wait for anything.”

News of Ruth’s expected arrival had reached the village, and the crowd at the station had increased.  On its inner circle, close to a gate leading from the platform, stood a young man in a slouch hat, with his left wrist bandaged.  The arm had hung in a sling until the train rolled in, then the silk support had been slipped and hidden in his pocket.  Under the slouch hat, the white edge of a bandage was visible which the wearer vainly tried to conceal by pulling the hat further on his head,—­this subterfuge also concealed a dark scar on his temple.  Whenever the young man pressed closer to the gate, the crowd would fall back as if to give him room.  Now and then one would come up, grab his well hand and pat his shoulder approvingly.  He seemed to be as much an object of interest as the daughter of the injured boss.

When Ruth gained the gate the wounded man laid his fingers on her gloved wrist.  The girl started back, peered into his face, and uttered a cry of relief.

“Mr. Breen!” For one wild moment a spirit of overwhelming joy welled up in her heart and shone out of her eyes.  Thank God he was not dead!

“Yes, Miss Ruth,—­what is left of me.  I wanted to see you as soon as you reached here.  You must not be alarmed about your father.”  The voice did not sound like Jack’s.

“Is he worse?  Tell me quick!” she exclaimed, the old fear confronting her.

“No.  He is all right,” he wheezed, “and is going to get well.  His left arm is broken and his head badly cut, but he is out of danger.  The doctor told me so an hour ago.”

“And you?” she pleaded, clinging to his proffered hand.

“Oh!  I am all right, too.  The smoke got into my throat so I croak, but that is nothing.  Why, Mr. Grayson,—­and Miss Felicia!  I am so glad, Miss Ruth, that you did not have to come alone!  This way, everybody.”

Without other words they hurried into the carriage, driving like mad for the cottage, a mile away; all the worn look gone from Ruth’s face.

“And you’re not hurt, my boy?” asked Peter in a trembling voice—­ Jack’s well hand in his own.

“No, only a few scratches, sir; that’s all.  Bolton’s hand’s in a bad way, though; lose two of his fingers, I’m afraid.”