“You had better come into the house,” again urged Mr. Churchill; “my daughter here may have something to tell you.”

Then James Wray looked eagerly at May, whose face grew very pale.

“I fear there has been an accident,” she faltered.

“Not to Elsie? Not to my girl!” cried James Wray.

“I—saw someone lying in Fern Dene—as if she had fallen,” said May in a trembling voice; “I am not sure—who it was—not sure it was Miss Wray—I ran to tell father—”

“Fallen!” repeated Wray, aghast. “Where could she have fallen from? How could my girl be in Fern Dene?”

“Suppose I send one of the men to bring Doctor Graham, he’s the nearest,” suggested Mr. Churchill. “I will go with you to Fern Dene if you like, Mr. Wray.”

“It can’t be my girl there!” said Wray, in violent excitement. “She went out about half-past eight o’clock, the barmaid says—how could she be there?”

“It’s better to ascertain at any rate, and I’ll send for Doctor Graham at once. This poor young woman in Fern Dene, whoever it be, may require some assistance,” answered Mr. Churchill, quietly.

He therefore at once dispatched one of the farm servants for the doctor, who only lived a quarter of a mile distant, and he whispered a word in May’s ear.

“Are you well enough to go with us, May?” he said. “And tell some of the women to bring brandy and blankets; the poor soul may not be dead, you know.”

May made no reply. She had looked at the landlord’s agitated face, and great pity for him was in her heart. But she was not quite sure of the dead woman’s identity. She thought it was Elsie Wray, but the face was so awfully changed she could not be certain.

“It may not be your daughter, Mr. Wray,” she said, tremulously, “who is lying injured—but we had better see.”

“It can not be my daughter,” affirmed Wray, “but we can see, we can see.”

“I will drive May to Fern Dene,” said Mr. Churchill. “It will take less time, and then we can take with us what is necessary, and will you drive the doctor, Mr. Wray?”

“Why wait for the doctor? Let us go at once,” answered the landlord, with nervous, eager impatience. “It can’t be my girl there, and I must find her.”

“Very well; he can follow. My horse will be harnessed in a minute, and then we can start,” said Mr. Churchill; and very shortly afterward they did start. Mr. Churchill’s horse was a young and powerful one, and they quickly drew in sight of the wooded dell that hid so drear a sight. Here Mr. Churchill assisted May out of the high dog-cart, and then fastened his horse to a tree, and took out the brandy and blankets they had brought. By this time Wray, who had been urging his pony to its utmost speed, overtook them, and the three together—May, her father, and the landlord—crossed the little bridge and found themselves in the shady Dene.

May went on, naturally with shrinking dread, and the landlord with trembling footsteps. They had not gone far when they met John Temple; he had heard their voices in the silence around, and now advanced to meet them, and as he did so his face was very grave.

“This is a sad affair, Mr. Churchill,” he said.

“I hope nothing very bad, Mr. Temple?” answered the farmer.

“It looks very black, at least,” continued Temple; “there is a revolver lying near the body among the undergrowth, but I thought it best not to touch it until the police arrive.”

“The body!” gasped the landlord, with staring eyes fixed on John Temple’s face, who did not know he was the father of the unhappy Elsie.

“Yes, the poor woman is quite dead, has been dead apparently for hours,” answered Temple, and as he spoke a sort of cry escaped the landlord’s lips.

“Where is she?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “It’s not my girl, but still—”

“She is suspended from a tree a little farther up the Dene,” said John. “I can show you the spot.”

“Oh, no, no, Mr. Wray!” now cried May, laying her hand on the landlord’s arm. “Let father and me go first—it’s no sight for you—”

But the landlord pushed aside her detaining hand.

“Let me go,” he said, hoarsely, and he ran forward, followed by the rest. Then when he beheld the ghastly sight, the streaming black hair, the half-open eyes, a great cry escaped his lips.

“My girl, my girl!”

His words rang through the woods. He flung himself on his knees; he raised the head; he looked wildly in the face. Yes, it was his girl—his Elsie—lying foully murdered in this lone spot!

“Elsie, who has done this?” he asked in passionate grief.

“Father, help me to disentangle her; to lift her down,” now said May, with streaming eyes. “Oh! help us, Mr. Temple!”

“Yes,” answered John Temple, “I will climb the tree and disentangle her dress. You help to hold her head and body, Mr. Churchill, while I go up.”

He was slight and active, and soon the poor still form was loose from the branch which had caught and held it in its fall. They laid her gently on the grass. May Churchill knelt down and covered the ghastly face and the blue-edged wound on the shapely throat, and she tried also to draw away the landlord from his dead daughter’s side.

“Oh, come away, come away, Mr. Wray,” she said, pitifully; “this is no place for you—I will stay with her—you go with father.”

But the unhappy man took no heed of her words. He knelt there holding one of Elsie’s cold hands; his eyes were staring from his head with sorrow.

“Who killed thee, my lass?” he asked again and again; “thee who had wronged none.”

“It may have been an accident,” suggested May, tearfully and soothingly.

But at this moment the doctor and some others arrived on the spot, and the doctor at once knelt down and removed the handkerchief from the face and throat.

“This looks like murder,” he said, in a low tone, carefully examining the wound.

“There is a revolver lying there among the undergrowth,” pointed out John Temple.

Mr. Churchill went forward at these words to the spot John indicated, and picked up the revolver and looked at it attentively.

“Why, Mr. Wray,” he said, “this is your revolver—here is your name engraved on it.”

Then James Wray raised his stony, grief-stricken face, and looked at the revolver in the farmer’s hand.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s mine—how did it come here?”

“It looks as if she—”

“She never brought it—she has been lured here and shot. Oh! my girl, my girl, that I should have lived to see this day!”

Nothing could exceed his heartrending grief. Elsie had been his only child, and for her he had worked and saved. He was well off, and for long had nourished a secret hope that his daughter would marry the young squire of Stourton Grange. And now it was all over; she lay dead before him—had died a tragic death—and a dark suspicion crossed his mind as he looked at her motionless form.

“Whoever’s done it, I’ll hunt him down!” he swore, inwardly. “I’ll ha’ his life for thine!”

It is useless to write of the painful details that followed. The police arrived and Elsie Wray’s body was carried away, followed by her heart-broken father; May Churchill also walked close to the bearers of the dead, as they bore her down the Dene. But before this was done, with gentle, womanly hands May had again covered the face, and rolled up the long hair, and arranged the dress in seemly fashion. And John Temple stood by and watched her do this, with strange emotion.

“She is not a mere pretty girl, then,” he was thinking, and he turned away with a restless sigh.

Then, when the sad procession had crossed the little bridge at the commencement of the Dene, May and her father returned to Woodside, and Elsie’s body was carried on to the Wayside Inn, for the inquest which was necessary to be held on it. May was very much overcome as she stood and watched them bear away the poor girl whose tragic end she had been the first to discover. She wished even to follow the dead the whole way, but Mr. Churchill would not hear of this, and John Temple also advised her not to do so.

“Let your father drive you home,” he whispered; “you look quite done up as it is.”

So May was handed into her father’s dog-cart, but just as they were starting Mr. Churchill asked John Temple to go with them.

“Can’t I give you a lift, Mr. Temple?” he said.

“Thanks, very much,” answered John, with alacrity, stepping up into the back seat of the dog-cart, and when they reached the nearest road to Woodlea Hall, he made no offer to descend, but accompanied Mr. Churchill and May the whole way to Woodside Farm.

When they arrived there Mr. Churchill insisted that he should remain to lunch.

“It’s our early dinner, you know, Mr. Temple, but we can offer you a fair slice of mutton.”

John Temple accepted this invitation also, and then judiciously began talking to the farmer of his horses.

“My uncle has given me a good allowance,” he said, “and I want a good horse. Have you anything you think would suit me?”

Mr. Churchill, who was a man with a keen eye to a bargain, immediately led John away to inspect his stables and paddocks. And it ended by John buying a valuable riding-horse and the farmer feeling that he had done an excellent morning’s work. Then came the early dinner, at which May presided, looking in John’s eyes more lovely still from the light pallor of her smooth cheeks, and the faint violet rim round her beautiful eyes. The tragic affair of the morning was scarcely mentioned, but the meal was hardly over when a summons was served at the farm for May and her father both to attend the inquest on poor Elsie Wray’s body, which had to be held on the following morning.

Then some one came to see Mr. Churchill on business, and John Temple and May were left alone.

“Let us go into the garden for a little while,” he said.

So the two went out together and walked side by side on the trim gravel walks, between the blooming flower-beds, which were May’s especial care. May made some allusion to Elsie Wray’s death, but after a word or two on the subject John Temple changed the conversation.

“She probably committed suicide, poor girl,” he said; “her appearance indicated that she was a woman of strong and passionate emotions.”

“In any case it is so terribly sad.”

“Yes, but do not think of it; we all must do so to-morrow; let us put off the evil day.”

Then he began talking to her of a little tour he had had in Normandy at this very time last year, telling her of the quaint old French towns that he had sojourned in, with their wide ramparts, spreading orchards, and rosy pippins. He spoke well and graphically, and somehow both forgot the time. Suddenly, however, John glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation.

“Why, the day has flown!” he cried. “Do you know it is actually five o’clock, and I left Woodlea at half-past eight. My good uncle will naturally think I have run away.”

“You must tell them—” began May, and then she paused embarrassed.

“I will tell them I went out for an early walk, and by accident met you, who had just made the sad discovery which you did. There is no need to say anything else.”

“No, of course not,” answered May, relieved.

“And I will add that I went back with you to Fern Dene, and saw the poor girl and remained there while you ran home for assistance to your father. This affair is sure to be greatly talked of.”

“Yes, it is most painful to be mixed up in it, and I feel so dreadfully sorry for her poor father.”

“The whole thing is painful—but I must go. Good-by, Miss Churchill—I wonder if you would give me a rose?”

“Oh, yes,” answered May; and she stooped down and plucked a crimson bud. “Will you have this one?”

“A thousand thanks—once more good-by.”

Then their hands met, and for a moment May looked up in John Temple’s face, and she blushed softly as she did so.