Traverse, controlling his own great mental agony, did all that he could to soothe and alleviate the sufferings of the doctor, until the arrival of the cart, that stopped on the road at the head of the little bridle path, where the accident happened. Then John jumped from the driver's seat and came to the spot, where he tenderly assisted the young man in raising the doctor and conveying him to the cart and laying him upon the bed. Notwithstanding all their tender care in lifting and carrying him, it was but too evident that he suffered greatly in being moved. Slowly as they proceeded, at every jolt of the cart, his corrugated brows and blanched and quivering lips told how much agony he silently endured. Thus at last they reached home. He was carefully raised by the bed and borne into the house and up-stairs to his own chamber, where, being undressed, he was laid upon his own easy couch. Traverse sent off for other medical aid, administered a restorative and proceeded to examine his injuries. "It is useless, dear boy--useless all! You have medical knowledge enough to be as sure of that as I am. Cover me up and let me compose myself before seeing Clara, and while I do so, go you and break this news gently to the poor child!" said the doctor, who, being under the influence of the restorative, spoke more steadily than at any time since the fall Traverse, almost broken-hearted, obeyed his benefactor and went to seek his betrothed, praying the Lord to teach him how to tell her this dreadful calamity and to support her under its crushing weight. As he went slowly, wringing his hands, he suddenly met Clara with her dress in disorder and her hair flying, just as she had run from her room while dressing for dinner. Hurrying toward him, she exclaimed: "Traverse, what has happened? For the good Lord's sake, tell me quickly--the house is all in confusion. Every one is pale with affright! No one will answer me! Your mother just now ran past me out of the store room, with her face as white as death! Oh, what does it all mean?" "Clara, love, come and sit down; you are almost fainting--(oh, heaven, support her!)" murmured Traverse, as he led the poor girl to the hall sofa. "Tell me! Tell me!" she said. "Clara--your father----" "My father! No, no--no--do not say any harm has happened to my father--do not, Traverse!--do not!" "Oh, Clara, try to be firm, dear one!" "My father! Oh, my father!--he is dead!" shrieked Clara, starting up wildly to run, she knew not whither. Traverse sprang up and caught her arm and drawing her gently back to her seat, said: "No, dear Clara--no, not so bad as that--he is living!" "Oh, thank heaven for so much! What is it, then, Traverse? He is ill! Oh, let me go to him!" "Stay, dear Clara--compose yourself first! You would not go and disturb him with this frightened and distressed face of yours--let me get you a glass of water," said Traverse, starting up and bringing the needed sedative from an adjoining room.