after a great while--it seemed
like a year--I managed to drag myself to the place, and, do you know,
no one was there!"

"Why, where _could_ he be?" cried the astonished children.

"Well, I thought he might have fallen, and rolled off under the stairs
into that dreadful vault."

"Oh, don't have him get in _there_, please," cried tender little Prue.

"Then," said Dudley slowly, "I leaned over the vault, and called his
name, 'Bernard! Bernard!' and then I jumped back, and almost screamed,
for I thought some other boy had spoken. I did not know my own voice;
it sounded so strange and solemn. But no one answered, and I dragged
myself away, feeling as if that awful hand grew tighter on my heart,
and thinking, as I went out of the door, how two of us went in, and
_why_ I was coming out _alone_. Then I sat down on the grass, and
though it was warm summer weather, I shivered from head to foot, and
_I_ remember thinking to myself, 'This queer boy sitting here isn't
Dudley Wylde--this boy _couldn't_ get angry, he's as cold as an
icicle--and Dudley Wylde's heart used to beat, beat, oh! so lively and
quick, but _this_ boy's heart is under a great weight, and will never
stir again--this boy will never run again, nor laugh, nor care for
anything--this boy isn't, he _can't_ be Dudley Wylde;' and I felt so
sorry for him I almost cried. Then, all of a sudden, I remember, I
began to work very hard. I picked up stones out of the path, and
carried them a great way off, and worked till I was just ready to
drop. Then I took some flowers, and picked them all to pieces--so
curious to see how they were put together, and I worked at that till
I was nearly wild with headache. Then I sat very still, and wondered
if that boy who wasn't, _couldn't_ be, Dudley Wylde--was ever going
home; and then I thought that perhaps if he sat there a little while
longer he would _die_, and that was the best thing that could happen
to him, for then he would never hear any one say--'Where is
_Bernard_?' So I sat there in this queer way, waiting for the boy to
die, when I heard a noise, and, looking up, saw--"

"Oh, what?" cried little Prue, clasping her hands, "a griffin, with
claws?"

But Dudley could not speak, and Bernard went on. "It's too bad for
'Dud' to tell that story, when he makes himself so much worse than he
really was. I was as much to blame as he in that quarrel, and I ought
to have had my share of the misery. You see, when he threw me over, my