with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside,
and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the
writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach.

"Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!" said one of the men.

"He didna suffer much, I reckon," said another. "My owd mother was nigh
froze to death in t' forest, and her said 'twas just like dropping to
sleep. An' luck ye, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child."

"John Dent, mon!" whispered one old keeper; "say thy prayers; thee
doesna often do't, and thee'll want it now."

And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair, that one
by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong bold men, who
feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the
awful face of Death.

One only remained--the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to
the wretched father. This man, whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to
Margery's room to see what could be done.

"I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John, poor fellow! The devil's got
un, sure enough; and it'll tak' a parson to drive't away. But ourn be a
queer gentleman. When I get to Harbury, what mun I say!"

"Say that I am here--that I entreat him to come at once," cried Olive,
feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in
common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at
John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form
of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of
vacant, hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried
to speak of comfort and of prayer.

It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected,
Harold Gwynne appeared.

"Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!"

"I did--I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come," eagerly cried Olive,
clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled
look, and took them away.

"What do you wish me to do!"

"What a minister of God is able--nay, bound to do--to speak comfort in
this house of misery."

The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty--

"Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us."

Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly
comfort or counsel can lighten;--that he had entered into the awful
presence of the Power, which, stripping man of all his earthly pomp,
wisdom, and strength, leaves