gazing sternly in silence at
an eager little speaker.

"Oh, do come; do, Uncle George! Our Clary is killed, and Father's away
on his rounds among the hill-farms!"

Oliver's teeth chattered in his head, and his little knees knocked
together as he stood with the rain-drops falling from his bare head on
to his little shoulders.

"Did your Mother send you here for me?" Doctor George asked harshly.

"No; oh, no! We dared not tell Mother! Clary fell from the top of the
Tile House to the hall floor, and she's all white and still. And
Euphemia lifted her arm, and it fell double!"

Dr. George suddenly sat up straight.

"Is it broken or is it a sprain?" he asked peremptorily.

"I--I don't know. I think she's killed!" answered the boy brokenly.

Oliver was nearly fainting from sheer fright, as Dr. George could see
for himself.

"Come along, boy," he said sharply, and he gathered together two or
three necessaries from the surgery-table while he spoke.

Presently two figures plunged out into the pouring rain.

"Father's gone with the other Carew! What can be the matter? Perhaps
Uncle John's killed, and they're going to make it up!" whispered the
girls.

"You are sillies!" scornfully said Tony. "How can people make it up if
they're dead?"

Ah, how, Tony? The time for that has gone by, indeed, boy!

Of the two figures that fled through the rain, the doctor reached the
Tile House first. In a trice he pushed aside Euphemia and he was
kneeling beside the motionless little figure; and, presently, when he
had gently probed the little form and lifted one limb after another, he
groaned under his breath. This little, tender, fair-headed thing, with
the face that reminded him so startlingly of his dead Mother, was sorely
injured; perhaps fatally so. As yet, he knew not.

Without a word, he cautiously lifted the unconscious Clary in his strong
arms, and signed to Euphemia to lead the way.

Then the door of the room he entered with his burden was shut, and the
Carew boys huddled close together, a miserable group. What if they had
killed the little, tender sisterling who was their queen and idol?

And Mother upstairs in her sick-room knew nothing as yet, while Father,
away on his long hill-round, was equally ignorant. It seemed to make
things so much more terrible to the little boys that they alone should
know.

"Come away, beside the fire, dearies." Mary Jane beckoned them into the
kitchen, and the wretched boys crept roun