lt a
little unconvinced. He who sends a bullet abroad at random may hear
later that it had its billet all along, though it was so silent about
it. As for the girl, she was in a fever of excitement; to reach the
scene of disaster, anyhow--to hear some news of respite, possibly. No
one had vouched for Death so far.

Sir Coupland was already on the spot, having only stayed long enough to
give particulars of the catastrophe to the Earl; but he was not by the
bedside. He was outside the cottage, speaking with Dr. Nash, the local
doctor from Grantley Thorpe, who had passed most of the night there.
There was a sort of conclusiveness about their conference, even as seen
from a distance, which promised ill. As the three ladies approached, he
came to meet them.

"Is there a chance?" said the Countess, as he came within hearing.

Only a shake of the head in reply. It quenches all the eagerness to hear
in the three faces, each in its own degree. Aunt Constance's gives place
to "Oh dear!" and solicitude. Lady Ancester's to a gasp like sudden
pain, and "Oh, Sir Coupland! are you quite, _quite_ sure?" Her
daughter's to a sharp cry, or the first of one cut short, and "Oh,
mamma!" Then a bitten lip, and a face shrinking from the others' view as
she turns and looks out across the Park. That is Arthur's Bridge over
yonder, where last evening she spoke with this man that now lies dead,
and took some note of his great dark eyes in the living glory of the
sunset.

As the world and sky swim about her for a moment, even she herself
wonders why she should be so hard hit. A perfect stranger! A man she had
never before in her life spoken to. And then, for such a moment! But the
great dark eyes of the man now dead are upon her, and she does not at
first hear that her mother is speaking to her.

"Gwen dear!... Gwen darling!--you hear what Sir Coupland says? We can do
no good." She has to touch her daughter's arm to get her attention.

"Well!" The girl turns, and her tears are as plain on her face as its
beauty. "That means go home?" says she; and then gives a sort of
heart-broken sigh. "Oh dear!" Her lack of claim to grieve for this man
cuts like a knife.

"We can do no good," her mother repeats. "Now, can we?"

"No, I see. Suppose we go." She turns as though to go, but either her
intention hangs fire, or she only wishes her face unseen for the moment;
for she pauses, saying to her mother: "There is old Stephen. Ought we
not to see him--o