When people have been very happy one day, they naturally wish to be happy another. John Temple and May Churchill had been very happy collecting the ferns in the Dene, and before they parted John expressed a wish that this pleasure might be repeated.

“We have had a charming afternoon, have we not, Miss Churchill?” he said, when May stopped at a short distance from her home and suggested that here they had better part.

“Yes, I think we have,” answered May, half-demurely, half-coquettishly.

“I don’t think, I’m sure,” smiled John. “And an idea has just struck me, how lovely that place, Fern Dene, would be in the early morning, when the dew is on the grass?”

“How romantic you are, Mr. Temple!”

“I was, but the weight of my years has crushed it all out of me.”

“You do not look very old. How old are you, really?”

“I am thirty, but I feel forty.”

“Thirty,” repeated May, with a little laugh. “Just ten years older than I am!”

“Oh, that decade, what I would give to forget it,” said John Temple, half-seriously. “To go back to my lost youth; to be like you—”

May shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“But I shall get old, too,” she smiled.

“And cease to be the Mayflower,” said John, with a genuine sigh. “Ah, that is very sad.”

Again May Churchill laughed. She stood there a picture of youth and beauty; a girl in the prime of her girlhood, and conscious perhaps that John Temple’s gray eyes were fixed admiringly on her lovely face.

“Yes,” he repeated, “that will really be very sad. Age makes no matter to ordinary-looking people, you know, but to a flower—”

“When shall I begin to wither?” asked May, archly.

“Oh! do not speak of it! And yet,” he continued more seriously, still looking at May, “there are some faces that must always be beautiful; some eyes that can never grow dim.”

“I plainly perceive that age has still left you romantic, Mr. Temple.”

“You inspire me, I was going to remark, to say foolish things. But on reflection I perceive the speech lacks politeness. But how about the dew on the grass! Will it lie till ten o’clock? Do let us meet in Fern Dene to-morrow morning, Miss Churchill, at ten o’clock to see?”

“How can you be there so early?” smiled May.

“I would rise with the lark, I would soar, I would do anything, if you will go.”

“It would be fun, certainly. Very well, if you will be there by ten, I will, but I do not expect to find you.”

“We shall see,” said John Temple, fervently.

“Yes, we shall see,” answered May, with a gay little laugh. “And now good-by, Mr. Temple.”

They shook hands and each went their separate way, thinking of the other. May Churchill was amused, excited, and flattered. How much more agreeable was this well-bred man, she was thinking, than country-bred young Henderson. In truth the Mayflower had never taken very kindly to this admirer of hers. But her father often invited Henderson to Woodside Farm, and his shrewd eyes were not blind to the young man’s love for his pretty daughter. The squire of Stourton Grange was a good match for May, Mr. Churchill had decided in his practical way, and certain ulterior views of his own made him wish to see May married.

May, however, was very happy at her home, and her father had never mentioned anything of Henderson’s attentions to her. Her young brothers sometimes rallied her about the young squire, but May took it all very good-naturedly. But if Henderson ever had had any chance of winning her affections, the time was past after she had met John Temple.

She went home smiling and happy after parting with him, but as she was entering the pleasant garden at Woodside, to her consternation she met Mrs. Layton coming out of the gate. The vicar’s wife did not approve of the Mayflower, nor of her pet name, but this did not prevent her asking small favors from her, when it suited Mrs. Layton’s convenience to do so.

“Oh, here you are, Miss Margaret,” she said, holding out a thin, meager hand; “I’m very glad I’ve met you, as I’ve had a long walk, and the servant said you were out. I wanted to see your father, but I dare say you will do as well. It is our school feast on Thursday, though, as you do not attend now, of course you do not know. But still I hope Mr. Churchill will supply the milk and cream gratis, as he kindly did last year?”

“I’ve no doubt that he will,” answered May, smiling.

“Thank you, then I may look on that as settled. Any little thing helps, you know; fruit or eggs, or anything. Indeed, speaking of eggs, could I have half a dozen fresh-laid ones to take away with me now, as the vicar is very fond of a fresh-laid egg?”

May Churchill blushed. Mrs. Layton knew perfectly well that May had nothing to do with the selling of eggs, nor the management of the poultry-yard. But she simply chose to ignore this; she liked “to keep people in their proper stations,” she used to say, and as she considered a farmer’s daughter ought to know about the selling of eggs, she was determined to let May Churchill know this.

“Of course I mean to purchase them,” Mrs. Layton added, as May hesitated.

“I will inquire if we have any to spare,” replied May, just a little haughtily; and as she spoke she turned and went in the direction of the dairy, and a few minutes later reappeared, carrying a small basketful of fresh eggs.

“I have brought you a few eggs, Mrs. Layton,” she said, “and I trust you will accept them.”

“Oh, dear, no; please tell me how much they are?” replied Mrs. Layton, fumbling for her purse.

“We do not sell eggs,” answered May, coldly.

“Not sell eggs! Dear me, I thought all farmer’s daughters sold eggs. But as you are so kind, I will accept them; and you’ll not forget to tell your father about the milk and cream? Well, good-afternoon, Miss Margaret; I think I must steal one of your roses, though, before I go.”

It must be admitted that May Churchill entered the house after this interview feeling a little ruffled. She had felt so happy before, and had enjoyed her afternoon so much, and then to be snubbed in this fashion!

“She’s a vulgar old woman,” she consoled herself by thinking, and tried to forget her annoyance in arranging the table prettily for her father’s tea.

This meal was of a very substantial order. The farmer dined early, but between seven and eight partook of a heavy meat tea. Cold lamb, a fowl, and a home-cured ham, and various other good things awaited him, to which he presently did ample justice. He was a very sober man, and healthful, and he laughed heartily about Mrs. Layton asking for the milk and cream.

“She’s not troubled with modesty, the parson’s wife, is she?” he said. But somehow May did not tell her father what Mrs. Layton had said about the selling of eggs.

May’s two young brothers were spending some days with a neighboring farmer’s son, and the father and daughter were thus alone. And after tea was over Mr. Churchill, having lit his pipe, looked more than once reflectively at his pretty girl.

“I’ve got something to say to you, May,” he said, at last.

“Yes, father,” answered May, looking up. She was not afraid of anything her father might have to say to her. He was always kind and generous in the matter of household expenses, and there had never been any squabbles between them regarding weekly bills.

“I’m thinking of marrying again, May,” continued Mr. Churchill, somewhat abruptly. “You see you’re sure to marry, and the boys are young, and will want someone to look after them—and so shall I,” added the farmer, with an uneasy laugh.

May did not speak for a moment, for she was completely astonished. Her lovely wild-rose color deepened, her eyes fell, and her hands played nervously with some embroidery she held in her dainty fingers.

“It’s Mrs. Bradshaw of Castle Hill,” proceeded Mr. Churchill; “you see she’s a handy woman, and has a nice bit of money, and there’s some very good grass land at Castle Hill.”

“Mrs. Bradshaw!” repeated May in dismay. She knew the buxom widow her father spoke of, both personally and by repute, and had never considered her a person fit to associate with. Her own mother had been a lady, the daughter of a clergyman, and May had certainly hoped that if her father married again he would not marry a woman like Mrs. Bradshaw, who had first been the wife of a country shopkeeper, and then of Mr. Bradshaw, a farmer at Castle Hill. Altogether it was a great blow to May Churchill, and she did not attempt to offer any congratulations to her father.

“I would not have thought of it,” continued Mr. Churchill, glancing at his young daughter’s changing face, “but that you are certain to marry soon, May. There’s young Henderson of Stourton; anyone can see what he wants.”

“I do not care for Mr. Henderson,” replied May, hastily, and without another word she rose quickly and left the room, leaving Mr. Churchill much disappointed by the conversation that had passed between them.

Then May went to her own room, and sat down to think, with a galling sense of annoyance in her heart. First Mrs. Layton and now her father had made her feel her social inferiority to the man of whom she had thought so pleasantly during the earlier part of the day.

“It’s absurd, my going to meet Mr. Temple,” she reflected, not a little bitterly. “No doubt he regards me as a milkmaid, a pretty milkmaid.”

She rose a few moments later, and stood looking at her own likeness in the mirror. No milkmaid type this, but a lovely young Englishwoman, with refined, delicate features, and the most charming expression in the world. May unconsciously smiled as she looked at herself in the glass. It was very trying certainly to have a stepmother like Mrs. Bradshaw thrust upon her, and to be reproached for not selling eggs by Mrs. Layton, but these things did not make her less fair.

She therefore decided that she would go and meet Mr. Temple the next morning. And she did. She said nothing to her father at breakfast about this early expedition, but started as early as half-past nine o’clock for Fern Dene, without telling anyone in the house where she was going.

She walked quickly and her spirits rose as she passed through the fields in the fresh morning air. Yes, the dew was still on the grass, she thought, smilingly, as she glanced at the herbage growing beneath the hedge-rows. Then presently she came to the little bridge across the brook that led to the Dene. How the water sparkled in the sunshine! Everything looked so bright; the blue sky, the wavering boughs of the green trees dappling the grass.

May walked on with a sense of exhilaration and pleasure pervading her whole being. She walked on until where the Dene narrows, stopped for a moment and glanced up at the steep-wooded declivity at its side. What made her suddenly start and turn pale? A little cry broke from her lips; a ghastly sight met her horror-stricken eyes.

A woman’s body, with head hanging downward and dark hair unbound, was suspended from a branch of one of the largest trees. May made a step nearer with shrinking dread. She thought first the poor creature had hanged herself, but a second glance told her this was not so.

There was a red stain of curdled blood around the drooped throat, from which the handkerchief had fallen, and the face, with its sightless, half-open eyes, nearly touched the ground. May went closer—then she saw the wound in the throat—the broken branches above; she recognized the face! It was the handsome girl from the Wayside Inn, the landlord’s daughter, and with a cry of horror May turned and fled from the spot.

She ran until she came in sight of the little bridge at the entrance of the Dene. On this, as he was in the very act of crossing it, John Temple saw her come hurrying on, evidently in a state of the greatest excitement and agitation. Instead of the pretty smiling girl he expected to meet, here was a woman who came toward him with outstretched hand and a white, shocked face.

“Oh! Mr. Temple,” she gasped out, as they met, “something so dreadful has happened!”

“My dear Miss Churchill,” he answered, taking both her hands, “what has happened?”

“A poor girl, a poor woman, is lying I think murdered farther up the Dene—”

“Murdered?” repeated John Temple.

“I think so, I fear so,” continued May, who was trembling in every limb. “She is hanging from a tree—she may have fallen—”

“Are you sure she is dead?” asked John Temple, gravely. “This has given you a great shock, I fear; but I had better go at once and see if I can do anything.”

“Yes,” answered May, with a shudder. “Oh! her face is so awful, awful, Mr. Temple! I think I know who it is; a poor girl I knew by sight. What shall we do?”

“We must see at once if help can be given. Are you afraid to show me where she is?”

“No,” said May, in a low tone, and again she shuddered.

“You need not go all the way, you know,” said John Temple, kindly and gently. “Come, lean on me; you are trembling so that you can scarcely stand.”

He drew her hand through his arm and spoke soothingly to her, and May felt thankful that he was there. His presence seemed to give her courage, and presently she was able to show him where the poor girl’s body was hanging from the tree. John Temple left her for a few minutes and went on. Then he, too, saw the terrible sight that had filled May’s heart with horror. He went up and touched one of the poor girl’s hands; he felt for the stilled pulse. But he knew too well it was useless. The ghastly face told its own tale. The woman was dead; had probably been murdered, and the miserable affair must, of course, at once be investigated.

He returned, therefore, to May and asked her if she were afraid to go home as quickly as possible and give the alarm.

“I do not like leaving the poor woman’s body quite alone,” he said, “but if you are afraid—”

“Oh, no,” answered May; “I will run home. Father will most likely be about the place, and he will come at once. I will go now.”

She hurried away, while John Temple kept his dreary watch. Presently she reached the homestead, and met her father almost at the gate. Almost breathless and panting she told the dreadful news, and Mr. Churchill listened, surprised and shocked.

“But are you sure it is Wray’s daughter, my dear?” he said.

“I am almost sure,” answered May. “Oh, father, it is such a dreadful, dreadful sight!”

“In that case I had better ride over and break it to poor Wray. Why, she was a fine, handsome, merry girl; how ever can such a thing have happened?”

While the father and daughter were speaking, and Mr. Churchill was considering what it would be best to do, to their surprise and pain James Wray, the landlord of the Wayside Inn, was seen approaching in a small dog-cart in great haste toward the house. He pulled up when he recognized the Churchills, and they saw that his face was pale and agitated.

“You’ve not seen or heard anything of my girl, have ye?” he asked, excitedly, addressing Mr. Churchill, whose eyes fell uneasily as he spoke. “She left home last night, and has never come back. I’m on my way to the station, and if I hear nothing of her there I must get the police.”

“Come into the house a few minutes, Mr. Wray,” answered Mr. Churchill, feelingly; “perhaps I may have some news for you.”

James Wray sprang from the dog-cart and grasped the farmer’s hand.

“Not bad!” he cried, “don’t say bad news about my girl! What is it, man? What do you know?”