The room to which the wounded gentleman was conducted, was at the back of the house looking toward the peak of the hill and over a corner of the orchard. Ordinary sounds from the road and the front of the house did not reach it.

Dr. Wells, washed, treated, and dressed the scratch, amid dissertations and reminiscences, while Rosamond assisted in the capacity of surgical nurse, and the patient stifled yawns and mirth and the desire to embrace the beautiful nurse; all three being blissfully unaware that there were anxious guests in the living room.

Mrs. Witherby, bearing all the marks of ‘half-asleep,’ sat in the big chair, looking about from door to door with barely suppressed excitement. Corinne stood near her, with gaping mouth and eyes, and a restless alarm that kept her standing, first on one foot, then on the other. Mrs. Witherby punched a cushion at her back, and said in a gusty whisper:

“I suppose we’d better sit down and wait till the nurse comes.”

“Has she a nurse?” Corinne whispered back.

“Of course. Dr. Wells would see to that. I expect he brought Jane Hinch with him. He always foists Jane Hinch on his patients. I wouldn’t have her in the house. I don’t consider her efficient. The fact that she is Mrs. Wells’s cousin is no recommendation to me.”

“Mrs. Wells didn’t seem to know what was the matter with Mrs. Mearely, did she?”

“How could she know till the doctor got here? How stupid you are, Corinne!”

“I’m so sleepy.” The big, round eyes blinked.

“Well!” irritatedly. “Is your mother not sleepy too? I do think Mrs. Wells might have waited till morning to telephone. It always upsets me to be waked suddenly like that.”

“But she knew Mrs. Mearely was alone. It must be dreadful to be ill and all alone.”

“You needn’t expatiate on it, Corinne,” sharply. “She has only herself to thank for it. I did my best to prevent her from remaining here alone. But she was ridiculously obstinate about it. She even joined Dr. Wells and the rest of them, in jeering and snickering at my caution. Well, you see what has come of it. That tramp returned and half murdered her with fright. I hope she has learned her lesson.”

“But, mamma, Mrs. Wells, said it was something she ate. At least, she thought it was.”

“Humph!” her mother interrupted. Her tone made “humph” a silencing argument to most opponents.

“Yes, mamma. Because, she said Dr. Wells himself had an attack of indigestion, when he came home; and he hardly ate anything—only some salad and a cheese sandwich.”

Mrs. Witherby sniffed in a superior manner. This was a subject on which she had opinions.

“My dear. The Wellses have dyspepsia on the brain—as well as elsewhere. Ever since that cousin of Dr. Wells, Dr. Mayhew Pipp, in London, discovered his famous cure for dyspepsia, the Wellses have had nothing else, and talked of nothing else. If they aren’t careful, they’ll die of it, just like Dr. Pipp did. I say that dyspepsia is not a disease at all. It’s a habit. Whenever my mother saw any of us looking yellow, she made us stick a feather down our throats—and that was the end of it. I will say, though, that I never tasted worse parsnip wine in my life. Such a slaughter of good parsnips. I had a little salad—and I thought it tasted very peculiar, now I come to think of it. Well—if it’s ptomaine poisoning, there’s probably very little hope for her.”

Corinne, who had only partly persuaded herself that there was nothing in the tramp theory, found herself unprepared for the even more serious poison theory. “Oh, mamma, don’t!” she wailed.

“We may as well face the worst, Corinne. Because, until her sister can get back, we shall be obliged to stay here and oversee things. I shall, at least. It’ll be my duty.”

Corinne stiffened with fright.

“I wonder whether they’ve sent for Mrs. Barton,” she whispered.

“I certainly hope so. Every moment counts in ptomaine poisoning.”

Corinne recalled vaguely something she had read once about bodies turning blue from poison; she thought of beautiful Mrs. Mearely turning blue, and pleaded:

“But, mamma—it may not be ptomaine poisoning. Mrs. Wells didn’t exactly know....”

Her mother sniffed again.

“Mrs. Wells never knows anything, my dear.” Feeling Corinne’s fingers in her hair presently, she snapped:

“What are you doing?”

“You left some of your curl-papers in. They look so funny. And your bonnet is crooked.”

“I don’t stop to think of my appearance when a friend needs my help. But you can laugh in the house of a dying woman you pretend to care for.”

This was so unjust that Corinne burst into tears. “She’s not dying! I just love Mrs. Mearely. She shan’t die,” she cried, between her sobs; and threw herself face downward on the settee to weep in comfort. Her mother was not disturbed by the salt storm, but, on patting her hair and finding one curl-paper still there, she became furious.

“Corinne! stop that nonsense and fix my hair. What in the world are you crying about? Do be cheerful. Your mother has enough to bear.”

Corinne, weeping heavily, dragged herself up from the settee and went to her parent. She removed the last paper spiral obediently and straightened the little turban, which had been sitting on its wearer’s head at an impossible angle. Mrs. Witherby, meanwhile, pursued her own train of thought.

“I do hope she has made her will.”

“She isn’t going to die!”

“I wonder if Wilton Howard will inherit much. I wish, sometimes, we had made more of him. I dare say he’s not a bad fellow at heart; but a man is very easily led astray by a silly girl. However, if he inherits any of Rosamond’s money, it will put an end to that nonsense.”

Corinne was so shocked by this allusion to her cousin’s love-affair, which she herself felt to be a wonderful romance, that her tears ceased.

“You mean Mabel? Why, Mamma! I should think, if Mr. Howard ever gets any money, he’d want to marry Mabel. I’m sure Mabel loves him terribly. I always wish she’d tell me about it. But she never does.” She sighed.

Mrs. Witherby, furious at this sentimentality, slapped her daughter.

“Corinne! be quiet! Do you suppose I could afford to have Mabel leave me and marry? I need her. Who’d do the marketing and the errands, and see to your clothes? After my giving her a home, too. I hope she wouldn’t be so selfish and ungrateful. Besides she wouldn’t be a suitable match at all for a man with money. If Mr. Howard does inherit any of Rosamond’s money, he will be obliged to make a fitting marriage. It will be his duty to all of us. Roseborough will expect it. Oh, you make me furious! You’d give Mabel everything you own, or that you might own, if your mother didn’t watch you.”

Subdued by her mother’s hand and her torrents of talk, Corinne whispered:

“I wonder if he is upstairs? Do you think he could have got here before we did?”

“I don’t know. He hadn’t heard anything about it till I telephoned him. He has farther to come.” Then she added—to herself, rather than to the daughter who seemed to have so little natural instinct for the main chance—“I wonder if he knows what she has left him in her will? Villa Rose, of course. Well, I’ve always wanted to take hold of this room and make it....”

“Mamma! I hear wheels! It must be Mr. Howard.”

Mrs. Witherby rose importantly and went to meet Howard, who came in swiftly, looking about him in apprehension.

“My dear Mr. Howard,” she said, emotionally, taking his hand in both hers, “this is terribly sad for you.”

“How is she?” he queried, in a sick-room whisper. She patted his hand.

“You must prepare yourself—we must all prepare ourselves. My dear, sensitive, tender-hearted Corinne is beside herself.”

Corinne, feeling better now that her mother had discontinued her theories and prophecies, said cheerfully:

“We don’t know anything. We haven’t seen anybody yet. We’ve only just come. We hope it’s all right.”

Mrs. Witherby was annoyed.

“Corinne! how you interrupt! Oh, I fear it is very serious, Mr. Howard. The doctor is still with her. But of course, we hope....” She broke off and murmured sentimentally: “Ah well, we always hope—we always hope.”

Howard’s tone reflected hers. “Yes, indeed. I can’t understand it. Rosamond has always been the embodiment of health. For her to be struck down suddenly in this way....”

“Dreadful! But rely on me, Mr. Howard. I shall remain here and take charge of things, till her sister arrives.”

“Mrs. Barton has been sent for?” he asked, quickly.

“We suppose so. But, in the excitement, it is possible no one has thought of it.”

He appeared to think rapidly.

“It should be done at once. I hardly know how. It will have to be by telegraph in some way—because Mrs. Barton’s mother has no telephone. Of course old Ruggle, of the telegraph office, is in bed, and the office closed. The office in Poplars Vale will be closed too....” He mused awhile. “Someone will have to get Ruggle up, and make him telegraph to the station agent at Trenton Waters, to send a man over to Poplars Vale, on horseback. Whom can we ask to wake Ruggle?”

“Oh, Mabel will go!” Corinne said. “She’ll be sitting up all dressed. She wanted to come, but Mamma wouldn’t let her.” She ran to the door of the anteroom, where was the instrument which afflicted His Friggets. “I’ll ’phone her.” She closed the door, so that the bell should not be heard.

“If Mrs. Lee had a telephone, I’d have had her here by now. But I’m certainly not going all that dark way to the cottage,” Mrs. Witherby remarked, seating herself again. Howard had followed Corinne to the door to impress on her the details of the message she was to telephone. In returning, he arrived at the large table and, almost immediately, discovered the supper-tray.

“I see you have had something to eat,” he said. “That was wise. You’ll need all your strength.”

Mrs. Witherby, in great excitement, joined him at the table.

“No! I haven’t. I wonder who has been eating? Two persons evidently. How odd!”

After a pause, Howard suggested:

“The doctor and the nurse, perhaps.”

“Well! It seems queer for Dr. Wells to sit down calmly and eat, when poor Rosamond is dying! Still, as I always say, it is amazing how much those dyspeptic people can eat, when there’s no one by to see them stuff.”

In moving the tray, she, in her turn, made a discovery; it was the pistol.

“Oh! Look! Oh! what does it mean?”

“What is it now, mamma?” Corinne asked, nervously, coming in at the moment. Howard picked up the weapon.

“Rosamond’s pistol. That’s strange.”

“Is it loaded?” Mrs. Witherby asked. “Yes, I expect so. No, it’s not.”

“Not loaded!”

“No. The chambers are empty.”

She caught at his arm.

“Do you suppose she could have been attacked—fought wildly to protect herself—and then been overpowered?”

“No—no” he answered, not paying attention to her, but trying to recall whether his cousin had reloaded the pistol before putting it into her desk after their ride. He thought she had; therefore, the empty chambers puzzled him. Corinne was walking about, aimlessly, clasping and unclasping her hands.

“I feel as if—oh, I’ll go crazy if something....” She caught hold of the big chair, and instantly screamed, “Look! Look! Blood on the chair!”

Her mother, with Howard close after her, rushed to the chair.

“Suicide!” Mrs. Witherby hissed dramatically. “Do you know of her secret sorrow? To think she may have been preparing to take her own life in the midst of all our gayety! Oh! Mr. Howard.” She broke down, emotionally, grasping his shoulder to weep upon. “Oh! Mr. Howard, that is what comes of taking people out of their proper station. Our dear Rosamond was never quite one of us. Her mother—the butter—! She must have felt it herself—felt poignantly her inability to live up to her station among us. Oh Mr. Howard—oh—dear!”

Howard freed himself, rather ungently, and started toward the door opening on the stairs.

“I’m going up there,” he said.

“Too late!” she cried, throwing her hands up over her head. “She’s killed herself!”