He sat down on a stone by the wayside. He leaned his chin on his hands and stared at Rodney. Was that Rodney? If the man were dead, why, then it was not anybody; it was--oh, what was it? And how could Rodney, so full of life and health and strength, be there so helpless? A great many strange and solemn thoughts came to the boy's mind as he sat there. And all the time he was listening for wheels, hoping that a carriage would come along. The mosquitoes buzzed about his face and stung him unheeded. He noticed that Rodney wore corduroys and leather leggings, and that a whip lay on the ground a few yards off. Leander went and picked up the whip, which he knew very well. But how strange even the whip seemed! So Rodney had been riding; and he had come home sooner than he had been expected. If he should be really dead, Leander supposed that his sister would mourn herself to death. He supposed his sister was in love with this long, still figure of a man. All at once the little watcher felt the tears springing up and blinding him. He rubbed his fists into his eyes, but the tears would come. It was while he was doing this that he thought he heard a sound; as he could not distinguish what the sound was, he dared not take his hands from his face, and he dared not move. Was it really a groan? His curiosity overcame his terror. He looked at the man in the road. Lawrence had raised himself on his elbow, but he immediately sank back again. Leander ran to him. Lawrence gazed in a blind sort of way at the boy. Then he half smiled, and said, feebly, "I suppose you're dead too, Lee, and we're both in heaven." "I ain't dead, for one," answered the boy. And then he sobbed outright in the intensity of his relief. "Then perhaps I'm not." A long silence, during which Lawrence stared rather stupidly at nothing, and Leander stared at him. After a little the boy bethought himself to ask if he couldn't help. "I don't know. I thought I'd wait until my mind cleared more." He raised his head again. "What's that?" he asked. He was looking at a white glove that lay near him on the ground. He dropped his head and slowly reached forth his hand till he grasped the glove. "It's hers," was the answer. "Hers? Caro's?" he asked, eagerly. But as he spoke the faint odor of iris came to him from the bit of leather in his grasp. He knew that odor of iris; it had always been inseparable from anything belonging to Prudence Ffolliott. "No," replied Leander; "it's Prue's." Lawrence lay silent. His face was dull and clouded. "Oh, I do wish I could do something!" exclaimed Leander. "She's gone on for help." "Who's gone on?" "Why, Prue, of course." Lawrence lifted himself up on his elbow again. "I had a nasty fall," he said. "I thought I was done for. Where's my horse?" "I ain't seen any horse." "It was one I was trying. Luckily, he'll go home to his own stable, and the stablemen won't break their hearts with anxiety."