er turned to go indoors, after their
earnest talk. She stood leaning on the old carved railing of the steps,
taking one more glance at the peaceful scene before she followed Walter
into the darkening entrance-hall, when her eye caught sight of a stumpy
figure which she thought she recognised.

It was little Jean Baxter, who hurried along the elm avenue as fast as
her short legs could carry her. She looked breathless and excited, and
when she came nearer Grace saw that she was tearful and dishevelled. She
hastened down the steps to meet her, wondering what childish grief
could be agitating the mind of the usually imperturbable little Jean.
When she caught eight of Grace, she threw up her arms with a loud,
bitter wail that rang among the old elms, echoing through their arching
branches, and startling the birds that had just gone to roost. "Oh, Miss
Cam'ell! Geordie, Geordie!--he's hurt; he's dyin'; Blackie's gotten hold
o' him."

It was vain to ask anything more. Jean could only repeat her wailing
refrain, so taking the child's hand, Grace quietly asked her to lead the
way to where Geordie was, trying to quiet her bitter weeping by such
soothing words as she could muster in the midst of her own distress at
the possibility of any serious accident having happened to her favourite
scholar. But poor little Jean's sad monotone still rang mournfully
through the soft evening air as she trotted along by Grace's
side--"Geordie's dyin'; Blackie's got hold o' him."

Grace, however, managed to learn from a few incoherent words that the
boy was lying, in whatever state he might be, at the river side, near
the stepping-stones. He had, that afternoon, taken the cattle, along
with the dangerous bull, to the heathery knolls, where Gowrie's careful
soul grudged that any morsel of pasture should remain unused. Geordie
had always been most careful in warning unwary passers-by of their
danger, for, though fearless enough himself, he still held that Blackie
was the "ill-natertest bull in all the country-side," and never felt
easy in his mind except when he had him within the fences of the upland
fields. He had once or twice tried to tether the animal near one of the
hillocks, but he saw that it made his temper more dangerous than ever;
besides, the little patches of green pasture were so scattered through
the heather, and had carefully to be scented out by discriminating
noses, that to have fettered poor Blackie to one spot seemed to him a