The inquest was held at the school-house.

For two hours the excitement in the village had been something tremendous. A huge crowd had assembled outside the school to watch the proceedings, and had recognised the various arrivals with breathless awe. First of all Mr. and Mrs. Orton, in a hired fly from Stanton, the dark and menacing brows of the lady boding ill for all her adversaries. By special request of Mr. Fowler, who had been roused by her to the most furious pitch of which his gentle nature was capable, all tidings of Mr. Percivale's discoveries had been kept from them. They swept in, greeted by a faint hissing from the rural population, and Mrs. Orton broke afresh into loud grief at sight of the sheet which covered poor little Godfrey's body.

Next arrived the coroner, driven by Mr. Fowler in his own dog-cart, and two other official-looking personages, who walked straight in, while Mr. Fowler nodded to some of those who stood near, with a steady cheerfulness so unlike his crushed depression of yesterday that a sudden wave of indefinable hope arose in the hearts of many.

Next, followed by four members of his crew, the stranger Mr. Percivale walked quietly up the hill, and in at the wicket-gate. He was very pale and there were purple marks under his eyes telling of want of sleep; but the still confidence of his manner did not by any means quench the spark that Mr. Fowler's aspect had kindled. A faint cheer followed him as he vanished into the interior of the school-house; but in a moment he reappeared, and stood at the door gazing down the hill as if expecting some one.

And now was seen a spectacle which literally stopped the breath of the momentarily increasing crowd—a sight so unexpected, so unaccountable, that one old woman shrilly screamed out, "Lord ha' mercy on us!" and a strange thrill passed over the assembly as a cart appeared, and stopped before the entrance. In the cart was not only the Edge Valley constable, but two from the Stanton constabulary, and in their charge was the widow Parker, in hysterics, and Saul, seated with a smile on his face, and his beautiful hair just lifted by the wind.

The sensation was tremendous; and it was greatly increased when, as the sobbing, frantic widow staggered blindly up the path, Mr. Percivale was seen to touch her kindly on the arm, and to whisper a few words which had the effect of checking her loud distress and inducing her to compose herself somewhat.

But it was not for her he had waited, for still he kept his place at the door; and presently the sound of wheels was again heard, and up the hill came the Misses Willoughby's wagonette. As it approached, some of the spectators noticed that Mr. Percivale uncovered his bright hair, and so stood until the carriage stopped, when he went forward, cap in hand, to greet the ladies.

Miss Charlotte, Miss Emily, Miss Brabourne, and Mr. Cranmer were in the wagonette, and it was at once remarked, that, though sad, they did not seem to be in despair. All three ladies were in black, and the Misses Willoughby greeted Mr. Percivale with particular politeness and distinction.

As for him, he only saw "one face from out the thousands." She was there, her hands touched his, she walked beside him up the shingly path. Her eyes rested on his with trust and gratitude untold. It was enough. For the moment he felt as if he had won his guerdon. They disappeared within the school-house, and the crowd outside began loudly to speculate on the turn that things were taking. Presently up the road hurried Clapp, the landlord of the "Fountain Head," his wife on his arm, both in their Sunday best, and both in such a state of excitement as rendered them almost crazy. The neighbors gathered round to hear the startling news that Mrs. Clapp had been subpoenaed as a witness in the case, though what they had to do with it they were at a loss to know, unless it were connected with the loyal William's illegal refusal to take Mr. and Mrs. Orton in as his guests on the previous day.

"I don't care if they dÛ gi' me a foine," cried he, stoutly. "A can affoard to pay it, mates, a deal better 'n I can affoard to tak' vermin into ma hoose!"

A murmur of applause greeted this spirited speech, and William was plied right and left with questions. But he knew no more than they did, only, in some mysterious way, an idea gained ground amongst them that the strange owner of the white yacht had wrought a miracle, or something very like it, for the preservation of Miss Elaine.

"What shall we dÛ, mates, if a brings her aout safe an' saound?" cried William. "Take aout the horses and drag 'im home, say I."

"Get a couple o' hurdles an' chair 'em," suggested another eager spirit; and then the constable came to the door, and imperatively called Mr. and Mrs. Clapp; when they had vanished, the door was shut, and a breathless hush fell upon the crowd.

Oh, the sunny silence in the old house with the terrace! Oh, the slow, slow motion of the hands of the clock as they crept round. Miss Ellen's couch lay out in the sunshine, her wan hands were clasped, her eyes fixed on the white road which descended from the school-house.

The school was on the other side of the valley. The building itself was hidden by a thick clump of trees, but below, a long stretch of road was clearly visible, leading down past the lower extremity of the Edge Willoughby grounds. Here stood the smithy, and, just opposite that, the road widened out into a triangular space, used as a village lounge of an evening when the weather was fine. Every summer there was a school feast, and all the children were marched down this road on their way to Mr. Fowler's meadows where the feast was held; and it had been a custom, ever since Elaine was a little child, for the whole procession to halt when it came opposite the smithy, with waving banners and flying flags, and, facing the terrace, to sing a hymn for the edification of the pale invalid as she lay on her couch.

To-day, thoughts of Elsa's childhood came thronging to Miss Ellen's mind. She saw her once more as she used to stand in her class, in her clean white frock and blue ribbons, with her hair waving all about her.

Now, as Miss Ellen saw clearly, the past was utterly and completely the past—gone and done away with for ever. In future it would not be in any way possible to continue the life which had flowed on so evenly for nearly fifteen years. Already the sisters talked of change, of travel. Elsa must be taken away from the place where she had suffered so much. Change of scene must be resorted to; everything that could be done must be done to make her forget the horror of the last few days, and restore to her nervous system its usually placid tone.

Little Miss Fanny, who had stayed at home to keep her sister company, was trotting nervously in and out of the open door, now snipping a few withered geraniums, now mixing the chough's food, and moving the cockatoo's cage further into the shade. Jackie himself careered up and down in the sunshine like a contented sort of Mephistopheles. He had been down to the duck-pond, and chased away all the ducks, which was one cause of deep satisfaction to him; over and above which, the cockatoo was caged and he was free, so that he was able to march up and down under the very nose of the captive bird, deriding him both by word and gesture.

"My dear," said Miss Fanny, sitting down with a patient sigh, "how long it seems!"

"Long? Yes!... Oh, Fanny, if anything should have gone wrong, if any unforeseen piece of evidence——"

"My dear," said Miss Fanny again, in a confident manner, "any unforeseen bit of evidence will be a help to our case."

"You really think so?"

"Think so? Why, the matter admits of no doubt at all. It is plain—even the poor mother can't deny it; the boy himself admits it. He told Mr. Percivale where to look for the cudgel with which the blow was struck."

"I should like to see Mrs. Orton's face. I wonder how she will take it," murmured Miss Ellen.

The clock struck.

"How late it is!" she sighed.

"Hark! What is that?" cried Miss Fanny. "What a strange sound! Don't you hear it?"

"I hear something," answered the invalid, growing white, and grasping the sides of her couch with straining fingers.

It was a hoarse deep roar, which for a moment they took to be the wind or the sea, till, as it was repeated, and again yet louder, they knew it for a sound which neither of them had ever heard before—the shouting of an excited multitude. There is perhaps nothing else in the world which so stirs the pulses, or sends the blood so wildly coursing in the veins. Neither sister spoke a word. They held their breath, strained their eyes, and waited, while the roar swept nearer, and swelled in volume, and at last resolved itself into a tremendous "Hip—hip—hip—hurrah!"

Then, on the white stretch of road down the opposite hill, appeared a flying company of boys, madly waving caps in the air. These were but the forerunners of the great concourse behind. Edge Combe, albeit so apparently small, boasted a population of a thousand souls, and quite half of them were present that morning, besides a goodly sprinkling from Brent, Philmouth, and Stanton. On they came, moving forward like a huge, irregular wave, every hat waving, every throat yelling; and then there flashed into sight a dozen or so of stout fellows, who bore on their shoulders a young man, lifted high above the heads of the throng, a young man whose head was bare, and whose conspicuously fair head caught the light of every sunbeam.

"Fanny! Fanny!" gasped Miss Ellen, in the midst of hysterical tears and laughter, "it is Mr. Percivale, they are chairing him. Who could have believed such a thing, in our quiet village! And, Fanny—see—there is the carriage—our carriage! There is Elsa—God bless the child! God bless her, poor darling!... They have taken out the horses; they are dragging them home in triumph. Look! the carriage is full of flowers; the women and girls are throwing them—they all know what she has suffered, they all sympathise, they all rejoice with us ... and that wonderful young man has done it all. How shall we ever repay him?"

And now the crowd had come to the space opposite the smithy, and here their leader, none other than the redoubtable William Clapp, waved his arms frantically for a halt. The masses of hurrying people behind stopped suddenly; there was an expectant murmur, a pause of wonder as to what was now to happen. The whole thing was intensely dramatic; the slope of the steep hillside lined with eager faces, the carriage in the midst smothered in flowers, and in the foreground the figure of Percivale, held up in the arms of the village enthusiasts against a background of deep blue sky.

"Three cheers for Miss Willoughby!" yelled William, so loudly that his voice carried back to the hindmost limits of the throng, and up to where Miss Willoughby was seated. The cheer that arose in answer was deafening, and Miss Ellen was so overcome that it was with difficulty she could respond by waving her handkerchief.

Scarcely had the sounds died away, when out burst the bells in the church tower, the ringers having raced off to set them going as soon as ever the result was known. As if with one voice the crowd broke forth into "See the conquering hero comes;" and so, with stamping feet and shouting lungs, they wound their way up the hill in the sunshine towards the drive gates of Edge Willoughby.