They would go to the village, Guy said, hoping that thus the doctor might be persuaded to accompany them. This diverted Jessie’s mind, and she said no more of praying; but the first tiny grain was sown, the mustard seed, which should hereafter spring up into a mighty tree, the indirect result of Maddy’s disappointment and almost fatal illness. They found the doctor at home and willing to go with them. Indeed, so impatient had he become listening for the first stroke of the bell which was to herald the death he deemed so sure, that he was on the point of mounting his horse and galloping off alone, when Guy’s invitation came. It was five miles from Devonshire to Honedale, and when they reached a hill which lay halfway between, they stopped for a few moments to rest the tired horses. Suddenly, as they sat waiting, a sharp, ringing sound fell on their ears, and grasping Guy’s knee, the doctor said, “I told you so; Madeline Clyde is dead.” It was the village bell, and its twice three strokes betokened that it tolled for somebody youthful, somebody young, like Maddy Clyde. Jessie wept silently, but there were no tears in the eyes of the young men, as with beating hearts they sat listening to the slow, solemn sounds which came echoing up the hill. There was a pause; the sexton’s dirgelike task was done, and now it only remained for him to strike the age, and tell how many years the departed one had numbered. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten;” Jessie counted it aloud, while every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon the hearts of the young men, who a few weeks ago, knew not that such as Maddy Clyde had ever had existence. How long it seemed before another stroke, and Guy was beginning to hope they’d heard the last, when again the dull, muffled sound came floating on the air, and Dr. Holbrook’s black, bearded lip half quivered as he now counted aloud, “one, two, three, four, five.” That was all; there it stopped; and vain were all their listenings to catch another note. Fifteen years, and only fifteen had passed over the form now forever still. “She was fifteen,” Guy whispered, remembering distinctly to have heard that number from Maddy herself. “I thought they told me fourteen, but of course it’s she,” the doctor rejoined. “Poor child, I would have given much to have saved her.” Jessie did not talk; only once, when she asked Guy, if it was very far to heaven, and if he supposed Maddy had got there by this time. “We’ll go just the same,” said Guy. “I will do what I can for the old man;” and so the carriage drove on, down the hill, across the meadow-land, and past a low-roofed house whose walls inclosed the stiffened form of him for whom the bell had tolled, the boy, fifteen years of age, who had been the patient of another than Dr. Holbrook.