eam. "Uncle," she cried,
"it looks like--like _Bingo_!"

The colonel turned suddenly upon me. "Do you hear?" he demanded, in a
choked voice. "You hear what she says? Can't you speak out? Is that our
Bingo?"

I gave it up at last; I only longed to be allowed to crawl away under
something! "Yes," I said in a dull whisper, as I sat down heavily on a
garden seat, "yes . . . that's Bingo . . . misfortune . . . shoot him
. . . quite an accident!"

There was a terrible explosion after that; they saw at last how I had
deceived them, and put the very worst construction upon everything. Even
now I writhe impotently at times, and my cheeks smart and tingle with
humiliation, as I recall that scene--the colonel's very plain speaking,
Lilian's passionate reproaches and contempt, and her aunt's speechless
prostration of disappointment.

I made no attempt to defend myself; I was not, perhaps, the complete
villain they deemed me, but I felt dully that no doubt it all served me
perfectly right.

Still I do not think I am under any obligation to put their remarks down
in black and white here.

Travers had vanished at the first opportunity--whether out of delicacy,
or the fear of breaking out into unseasonable mirth, I cannot say; and
shortly afterward the others came to where I sat silent with bowed head,
and bade me a stern and final farewell.

And then, as the last gleam of Lilian's white dress vanished down the
garden path, I laid my head down on the table among the coffee-cups, and
cried like a beaten child.

I got leave as soon as I could, and went abroad. The morning after my
return I noticed, while shaving, that there was a small square marble
tablet placed against the wall of the colonel's garden. I got my
opera-glass and read--and pleasant reading it was--the following
inscription:

IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY

OF

B I N G O,

SECRETLY AND CRUELLY PUT TO DEATH,

IN COLD BLOOD,

BY A

NEIGHBOUR AND FRIEND.

JUNE, 1881.

If this explanation of mine ever reaches my neighbours' eyes, I humbly
hope they will have the humanity either to take away or tone down that
tablet. They cannot conceive what I suffer when curious visitors insist,
as they do every day, on spelling out the words from our windows, and
asking me countless questions about them!

Sometimes I meet the Curries about the village, and as they pass me with
averted heads I feel myself growing crimson. Travers is almost always
with Lilian now. He has