s confessed," said Iredale quietly, "and
I think that his motives were even stronger than those attributed
to----"

Prudence placed a hand over his mouth before he could complete his
sentence.

They were startled from their horrified contemplation of the work of
those last few moments by the sound of Hephzibah's voice calling from
her bedroom. The sitting-room door had been opened by Alice, who had
entered the moment Iredale had released the handle. Now they could
hear the farm-wife moving about overhead, evidently on her way
down-stairs.

Sarah was the first to recover her presence of mind. She turned upon
Robb.

"Not a word to her about--about----"

Robb shook his head.

Iredale snatched the pistol from the dead man's hand.

Mrs. Malling's footsteps came creaking down the stairs. Suddenly
Prudence's hands went up to her face as she thought of the shock
awaiting her mother. Alice dragged her away to a chair. Iredale and
Robb stood looking down at the two objects on the floor. Master and
hound were lying side by side.

Sarah ran to the door and met the farm-wife. She must never know that
her son was a murderer--a double murderer.

Those within the room heard the school-ma'am's gentle tones.

"No, no, Hephzibah, you must not go in there yet. There are
things--things which you must not see. The hound has killed him.
Hervey enraged the dog, and the wretched beast turned upon him--and he
is dead."

Then there came the sound of a scuffle. The next moment mother Hephzy
pushed her way into the room. She looked about her wildly; one hand
was clutching a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly her round,
staring eyes fell upon the two objects lying side by side upon the
ground. She looked at the hound; then she looked upon her son. Iredale
had covered the torn throat with pocket-handkerchiefs.

The bills slowly fell in a shower from her hand, and her arms folded
themselves over her breast. Then she looked in a dazed fashion upon
those about her, muttering audibly.

"He's dead--he's dead," she repeated to herself over and over again.
Then suddenly she ceased her repetitions and shook her head.
"Mussy-a-me, mussy-a-me! The Lord's will be done!"

And she slowly fell in a heap by her dead son's side.

IN CONCLUSION

Time, the great healer of all sufferings, all sorrows, can do much,
but memory clings with a pertinacity which defies all Time's best
efforts. Time may soften the poignancy of deep-rooted