Finding a man flung apparently lifeless at her feet, Patty applied herself in the most matter-of-fact way to the discovery whether he were dead or alive.

He had been with much violence pitched headforemost into the ditch; and her first care was to drag his head out of the mire, and to turn him over into an easy position. She loosened his cravat, and bathed his forehead with water. At last a faint groan attested that life had not departed, and the man stirred feebly.

By this time a few men panting and blowing came running up. They had heard the runaway, and pursued as rapidly as possible, humanity and curiosity alike spurring them on. By Patty's direction they carried the injured man into the house of Mrs. Brown, which chanced to be at hand; and then it was seen that he was Peter Mixon. They were obliged to deposit the unfortunate Peter on a lounge while the lady of the house had a bed prepared for him.

"I've been meaning to have a bed made up in the spare-room," that notable housekeeper said, "ever since brother Phineas's folks were here last spring. I never would have believed, Patience Sanford, that you'd have brought him here! But there! as I was telling Joe only the other day when our old gray cat died, that we've had for more than ten years, our best friends ain't to be depended upon; but they'll go off the handle when you least expect it. And it ain't as if I had a house full of copious apartments: I've only that room for company. However, carry him up."

The sufferer was at length got to bed, a messenger having meanwhile been sent for Dr. Sanford. Patty thought it best to remain until her father came; as Mrs. Brown evinced a strong disposition to stir up the wounded man, and make him tell where he was injured. Mixon lay unconscious, his heavy breathing sounding painfully through Mrs. Brown's dribble of speech. His head was badly gashed, and one of his arms hung limp and helpless. When Dr. Sanford came, he saw at a glance that the man was dangerously hurt, several of his ribs being broken, and it appearing probable that he was injured internally. Dr. Sanford made his daughter useful while he dressed the wounds in the patient's head.

"I shall stay a while," he said when this was done. "How came you here?"

"I was going home, and saw him thrown out."

"Going home? What for?"

"I had a headache, and the rooms were very warm," she replied, dropping her eyes.

"Were you alone?"

"Yes, sir."

Her father looked at her keenly.

"I won't force your confidence," he said; "but I've seen for some time that you were unhappy. Be careful, my daughter."

"I shall be as merry as a grig," she answered, "when I have slept off this headache."

The wind had risen, and the sky was overcast, as Patty hurried towards home. The leaves went scurrying by with a hollow rustle, while all the air was full of those eerie noises which haunt its bosom on All-Hallowe'en. Shivering somewhat from excitement, and more from fatigue, the girl reached her gate. The wounded man had already given place in her mind to the remembrance of her interview with Tom Putnam. Now at last she felt that every thing was ended between them. Instead of going into the house, she crossed the garden towards the brook. Just above the bridge was a pool which the children used to call Black-Clear Eddy, from the singular blackness at once and transparency of the water. Standing beside this she dropped a stone into the pool to break the thin film of ice which was forming. Then she unfastened her cloak, and drew up from beneath the bosom of her dress a silk cord, to which was fastened a hoop of gold wire. It was her secret, known to no one but herself. Years before, Tom Putnam had twisted this ring carelessly from a bit of gold broken from his sister's bracelet, and had given it to Patty for a philopena. She held it a moment in her hand, and then dropped it through the hole in the ice.

"There!" she said to herself, turning away. "That is done. I feel so much like a sensational story, that I am not sure I am not to be continued in our next. I should have done something tragic in throwing away that trumpery ring. A few lines from 'The Faithful Jewess' wouldn't have come in amiss:—

"Goodness, how cold it is! Good-by, old ring! Some of the witches riding about to-night may fish you up, and wear you to their sabbath."

She entered the silent house, and crept to her room, where she got quickly to bed, only to lie and toss with troubled thought, which would have ended in tears had she been of weaker mettle. She fell asleep at last: and from her mind, as from Pandora's box, slipped every thing but hope; so that she dreamed she was betrothed to Tom Putnam with the very ring she had dropped into Black-Clear Eddy.