One afternoon Frank went to the post-office a little after the
usual time. As he made his way through a group at the door, he
notice compassionate glances directed toward him.
His heart gave a sudden bound.
"Has anything happened to my father?" he inquired, with pale
face. "Have any of you heard anything?"
"He is wounded, Frank," said the nearest bystander.
"Show it to me," said Frank.
In the evening paper, which was placed in his hands, he read a
single line, but of fearful import: "Henry Frost, wounded."
Whether the wound was slight or serious, no intimation was given.
Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was not
dead, as he at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense would
be a serious trial. He did not know how to tell his mother. She
met him at the gate. His serious face and lagging steps revealed
the truth, exciting at first apprehensions of something even more
serious.
For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter from
the absent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts.
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