t her trembling hand.

The farmer had anticipated her thought. He had taken his flask from the
saddle pocket, and was kneeling down by the Squire. Roderick had lifted
the heavy head, and turned the ghastly face to the waning light. He
tried to force a little brandy between the livid lips--but vainly.

"For God's sake get her away," he whispered to John Wimble, the farmer.
"It's all over with him."

"Come away with me, my dear Miss Tempest," said Wimble, trying to raise
Violet from her knees beside the Squire. She was gazing into that awful
face distractedly--half divining its solemn meaning--yet watching for
the kind eyes to open and look at her again. "Come away with me, and
we'll get a doctor. Mr. Vawdrey will take care of your father."

"You go for the doctor," she answered firmly. "I'll stay with papa.
Take my horse, he's faster than yours. Oh, he'll carry you well enough.
You don't know how strong he is--go, quick--quick--Dr. Martin, at
Lyndhurst--it's a long way, but you must get him. Papa will recover,
and be able to ride home, perhaps, before you can get back to us, but
go, go."

"You go for the doctor, miss; your horse will carry you fast enough.
He'd never carry such a heavy weight as me, and my cob is dead beat.
You go, and Mr. Vawdrey will go with you. I'll take care of the Squire."

Violet looked from one to the other helplessly.

"I'd rather stay with papa," she said. "You go--yes--go, go. I'll stay
with papa."

She crouched down beside the prostrate figure on the damp marshy
ground, took the heavy head on her lap, and looked up at the two men
with a pale set face which indicated a resolve that neither of them was
strong enough to overrule. They tried their utmost to persuade her, but
in vain. She was fixed as a new Niobe--a stony image of young despair.
So Roderick mounted his horse and rode off towards Lyndhurst, and
honest Jack Wimble tied the other two horses to the gate, and took his
stand beside them, a few paces from those two motionless figures on the
ground, patiently waiting for the issue of this bitter hour.

It was one of the longest, weariest, saddest hours that ever youth and
hope lived through. There was an awful heart-sickening fear in Violet's
mind, but she gave it no definite shape. She would not say to herself,
"My father is dead." The position in which he was lying hampered her
arms so that she could not reach out her hand to lay it upon his heart.
She bent her face down to hi