lady gathered up her reins.
"I passed such a person," she said, "when I drove out of town shortly after breakfast. He was going south, as I was. It must have been somewhere not far from this place."
"And – did you see his face?"
"No; the pony was fresh then, and I was intent upon him."
She lifted the reins, and then turned as if to speak again when the man who had been a silent witness of the little dialogue came a step nearer.
"I s'pose you hav'n't heard any noise – a pistol shot – nor anythin' like that, have ye, ma'am?"
"Mercy! No, indeed! Why, what has happened?"
Before either could answer, there came a shout from the direction of the lake shore.
"Doran, come – quick!"
They were directly opposite the mound, at its central or highest point, and, turning swiftly, James Doran saw the man Hopkins at the top of it, waving his arms frantically.
"Is he found?" called Doran, moving toward him.
"Yes. He's hurt!"
With the words Hopkins disappeared behind the knoll, but Doran was near enough to see that the man's face was scared and pale. He turned and called sharply to the lady, who had taken up her whip and was driving on.
"Madam, stop! There's a man hurt. Wait there a moment; we may need your horse." The last words were uttered as he ran up the mound, his companions close at his heels. And the lady checked the willing pony once more with a look half reluctant, wholly troubled.
"What a position," she said to herself, impatiently. "These villagers are not diffident, upon my word."
A few moments only had passed when approaching footsteps and the sound of quick panting breaths caused her to turn her head, and she saw James Doran running swiftly toward her, pale faced, and too full of anxiety to be observant of the courtesies.
"You must let me drive back to town with you, madam," he panted, springing into the little vehicle with a force that tried its springs and wrought havoc with the voluminous folds of the lady's gown. "We must have the doctor, and – the coroner, too, I fear – at once!"
He put out his hand for the reins, but she anticipated the movement and struck the pony a sharp and sudden blow that sent him galloping townward at the top of his speed, the reins still in her two small, perfectly-gloved hands.
For a few moments no word was spoken; then, without turning her eyes from the road, she asked:
"What is it?"
"Death, I'm afraid!"
"What! Not suicide?"
"Never. An accident, of course."
"How horrible!" The small hands tightened their grasp upon the reins, and no other word was spoken until they were passing the school-house, when she asked —
"Who was it?"
"Charles Brierly, our head teacher, and a good man."
Miss Grant was standing at one of the front windows and she leaned anxiously out as the little trap darted past.
"We can't stop," said Doran, as much to himself as to his companion. "I must have the pony, ma'am. Where can I leave you?"
"Anywhere here. Is there anything – any message I can deliver? I am a stranger, but I understand the need of haste. Ought not those pupils to be sent home?"
He put his hand upon the reins. "Stop him," he said. "You are quick to think, madam. Will you take a message to the school-house – to Miss Grant?"
"Surely."
They had passed the school-house and as the pony stopped, Doran sprang out and offered his hand, which she scarcely touched in alighting.
"What shall I say?" she asked as she sprang down.
"See Miss Grant. Tell her privately that Mr. Brierly has met with an accident, and that the children must be sent home quietly and at once. At once, mind."
"I understand." She turned away with a quick, nervous movement, but he stopped her.
"One moment. Your name, please? Your evidence may be wanted."
"By whom?"
"By the coroner; to corroborate our story."
"I see. I am Mrs. Jamieson; at the Glenville House."
She turned from him with the last word, and walked swiftly back toward the school-house.
Hilda Grant was still at the window. She had made no attempt to listen to recitations, or even to call the roll; and she hastened out, at sight of the slight black robed figure entering the school yard, her big grey eyes full of the question her lips refused to frame.
They met at the foot of the steps, and Mrs. Jamieson spoke at once, as if in reply, to the wordless inquiry in the other's face.
"I am Mrs. Jamieson," she said, speaking low, mindful of the curious faces peering out from two windows, on either side of the open door. "I was stopped by Mr. – "
"Mr. Doran?"
"Yes. He wished me to tell you that the teacher, Mr. – "
"Brierly?"
"Yes; that he has met with an accident; and that you had better close the school, and send the children home quietly, and at once."
"Oh!" Suddenly the woman's small figure swayed; she threw out a hand as if for support and, before the half-dazed girl before her could reach her, she sank weakly upon the lowest step. "Oh!" she sighed again. "I did not realise – I – I believe I am frightened!" And then, as Miss Grant bent over her, she added weakly: "Don't mind me. I – I'll rest here a moment. Send away your pupils; I only need rest."
When the wondering children had passed out from the school-rooms, and were scattering, in slow-moving, eagerly-talking groups, Hilda Grant stood for a moment beside her desk, rigid and with all the anguish of her soul revealed, in this instant of solitude, upon her face.
"He is dead!" she murmured. "I know it, I feel it! He is dead." Her voice, even to herself, sounded hard and strange. She lifted a cold hand to her eyes, but there were no tears there; and then suddenly she remembered her guest.
A moment later, Mrs. Jamieson, walking weakly up the steps, met her coming from the school-room with a glass of water in her hand, which she proffered silently.
The stranger drank it eagerly. "Thank you," she said. "It is what I need. May I come inside for a little?"
Hilda led the way in silence, and, when her visitor was seated, came and sat down opposite her. "Will you tell me what you can?" she asked hesitatingly.
"Willingly. Only it is so little. I have been for some time a guest at the Glenville House, seeking to recover here in your pure air and country quiet, from the effects of sorrow and a long illness. I have driven about these hills and along the lake shore almost daily."
"I have seen you," said Hilda, "as you drove past more than once."
"And did you see me this morning?"
"No."
"Still, I passed this spot at eight o'clock; I think, perhaps, earlier. My physician has cautioned me against long drives, and this morning I did not go quite so far as usual, because yesterday I went too far. I had turned my pony toward home just beyond that pretty mill where the little streams join the lake, and was driving slowly homeward when this Mr. Doran – is not that right? – this Mr. Doran stopped me to ask if I had seen a man, a tall, fair man – "
"And had you?"
"I told him yes; and in a moment some one appeared at the top of the Indian Mound, and called out that the man was found."
"How – tell me how?"
Mrs. Jamieson drew back a little and looked into the girl's face with strange intentness.
"I – I fear he was a friend of yours," she said in a strangely hesitating manner, her eyes swiftly scanning the pale face.
"You