ate the nature of a circumstance seemingly of so
little significance.

Thus it came about that the inquisition of the coroner's jury resulted in
a verdict of death by accident. It was supposed that the little child's
body was crushed indistinguishably in the mangled mass of horse and man,
themselves scarcely to be disintegrated in the fall from so stupendous a
height. The big white beaver hat of the child was found floating on the
surface of a deep pool hard by, half quagmire, half quicksand, and would
in itself have sufficed to dispel any doubts of his fate, had doubt been
entertained. The burial was accomplished as best might be, and the
dolorous incident seemed at an end. But throughout the dry, soft Indian
summer the little boy's jaunty red coat swung in the wind, unseen,
unheeded, on the upper boughs of a tree in the valley, where it had
chanced to lodge when the treacherous Copenny had cast it forth from the
bluff above to justify the hypothesis of the fall of the little fellow
from those awful heights.

Gradually the catastrophe ceased to be the paramount sensation of the
country-side. Bayne's interests of necessity had drawn him back to his
city office. He had remonstrated against the decision of the two bereaved
women to remain in the bungalow for a time. He had advocated change,
travel, aught that might compass a surcease of the indulgence of sorrow
and dreary seclusion, that are so dear and so pernicious to the stricken
heart. But in their affliction the two clung together and to the place
endeared by tender associations of the recent habitation of the beloved
and vanished. They said that none could feel for them as each for the
other, and, in fact, their awful tragedy had cemented an affection
already almost sisterly. Thus the bungalow caged through the opening of
wintry weather these tenants of woe who had come like the birds for
sunshine and summer only. Since the community continued in absolute
ignorance that any crime had been committed, there was no sense of
insecurity or apprehension of danger, other than might menace any country
house, isolated and secluded in situation. The normal precautions were
taken, the household was strengthened, and Mrs. Marable, Lillian's aunt,
or rather her uncle's wife, who had come to her at the first news of her
affliction, had consented to remain during her stay. Owing to the
discovery of the intrusion into the hotel, with no other fear than
material injury to the prope