“Quite safe!” said Mrs. Harford, resolved not to spare the girl or help her out in any way. It was some slight satisfaction to her to see this proud maiden suffer. “And Gabriel?” she faltered. “He was safe, too?” “Alas, no!” said the mother, with a sigh. Hilary turned white, but asked no more questions. As if from a great distance she heard the silence at length broken by Mrs. Harford’s voice. “They gave him up for lost that night, but the next morning a young officer, Mr. Joscelyn Heyworth, found him on the field and there was still life in him. They carried him to Kineton, and he lies there grievously wounded.” The girl rallied her failing powers and became obstinately hopeful. “He is young and strong,” she said, with forced cheerfulness. “He is sure to recover. My mother will be very sorry to hear your ill news, and--and--if you should again have tidings, she would be glad to hear, I know.” “We cannot hope to hear again,” said Mrs. Harford. “It was only by great good fortune that Sir Robert Harley was able to get a letter to Lady Brilliana, and we are little like to hear from Gabriel himself, even if he were well enough to write. This is the hard part of war, the terrible waiting for news.” After formally polite farewells Hilary found herself going down the broad oak staircase with dim eyes; but Neptune, Gabriel’s favourite spaniel, stood wagging his tail in most friendly fashion in the entrance-hall, and her sore heart was a little comforted when he bounded up to lick her hand as if he recognised the fact that she was still in some subtle way connected with his master. Unwilling to pass through the street with eyes brimming over with tears, she went back through the garden and by the little wicket gate. But the sight of the sunny south walk did not raise her spirits, and with the terror that even now Gabriel might be lying dead at Kineton, she could hardly endure the sound of the gardener’s dismal ditty. He still toiled away at the apple gathering, and still chanted, in lugubrious tones, the gruesome words: “The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin’ worm doth chide-” Hurrying away from this unbearable song and half blinded by tears, she suddenly found herself brought to a pause by Dr. William Coke, who was standing at the door that he might more closely inspect in the sunshine a fossil which they had brought back from Whitbourne. “Whither away so fast, little niece?” he said in his genial voice. Then catching sight of the wet eyelashes, “Eh, what is amiss, my dear?” “’Tis only that the stupid gardener will sing gruesome ballads about graves and channerin’ worms just on this special day when we have heard how thousands are dead and dying at Kineton,” said Hilary. He sighed as he patted her shoulder, caressingly.