ere could not be a moment's question of it, for she
had often both seen and used it. But what was it that sent a chill like
the chill of death through every limb, and made her totter faintly
against the bank? There was something trickling down the blade as she
held it up, and, even in the moonlight, she could see that it was blood.
A world of misery swept with a hurricane force into her heart. Had her
brother, driven to desperation by his father's cruelty, really destroyed
himself? Perhaps he had first partially done the dreadful deed with his
knife, and then thrown himself down that old shaft, so as to complete
the fearful work and leave no trace behind. Poor miserable Betty! she
groaned out a prayer for help, and then she became more calm. Creeping
up close to the edge of the old shaft, she looked into it as far as she
dared; the moonlight was now full upon it; the ferns and brambles that
interlaced across it showed no signs of recent displacement; she
listened in an agony of earnest attention for any sound, but none came
up from those dark and solemn depths. Then she began to think more
collectedly. Hope dawned again upon her heart. If her brother meant to
destroy himself he would scarcely have first used the knife and then
thrown himself down the shaft, leaving the knife behind him as a guide
to discovery. Besides, it seemed exceedingly improbable that he would
have put on his best hat and shoes if bent on so speedy self-
destruction. She therefore abandoned this terrible thought; and yet how
could the presence of the knife on that spot, and the blood on the
blade, be accounted for? She looked carefully about her--then she could
trace evident marks of some sort of scuffle. The bank itself near the
old shaft was torn, and indented with footmarks. Could it have been
that her father had encountered Samuel here as he was returning, that
they had had words, that words had led to blows, and that one or both
had shed blood in the struggle? The thought was madness. Carefully
concealing the knife in her clothes, she hurried home at the top of her
speed; but before she quite reached the door, the thought suddenly smote
full and forcibly on her heart, "If fayther _has_ killed poor Sammul,
what will _he_ be? A murderer!" She grew at once desperately calm, and
walked quietly into the house.

"I haven't heard anything of our Sammul," she said sadly, and with
forced composure. "Where's fayther?"

"I've been loo