Tears were streaming down his cheeks his voice choked. Kingcote felt his arm quiver. “I can’t believe it! I _wont_ believe it!” the rector pursued, crying like a child at last. “An accident, but not killed--great Heaven, no! I never had such a ghastly shock in my life. One moment, Kingcote; I am ashamed to pass the lodge like this. I never thought I should be so weak. But if it were my own wife I scarcely could feel it more. I pray to Almighty God that it may be a mistake!” The lodge was vacant. “They’re up at the house,” said Mr.. Vissian, under his breath. “Oh, that looks bad! That dear, dear lady--it cannot be, Kingcote!” Kingcote walked on in perfect silence, his looks on the ground, no muscle of his face moving. He did not seem to hear his companion’s talk. It was just beginning to rain; drops pattered on the dead leaves which lay about the grass. Kingcote heard the sound; he could never afterwards hear it without the return of this hour in terrible vividness. The air seemed stifling; perspiration came out on him as he walked. At length the rector had ceased to speak. The drive grew moist, and rain splashed upon it; on the dead leaves the rain still pattered. As they were entering the garden they met the porter on his way back to the lodge. “What has happened?” Mr. Vissian asked, catching his arm and waiting with dread for an answer. “An accident; a bad accident?” “Yes, sir; a bad fall,” the man replied. “She is alive?” “Thank God, sir, it’s not so bad as that.” He went on to explain that the horse had breasted a fence and rolled over, inflicting grave injuries upon its rider. The accident had occurred not three miles away. Mrs. Clarendon had first been removed to a cottage, then brought home by carriage as soon as she recovered consciousness. Mrs. Stratton was with her. The doctor had just arrived, and another from London had been telegraphed for. “I think I’ll go in and hear the doctor’s report,” Mr. Vissian said. “May I wait for you at the rectory?” asked Kingcote. “Yes; but I beg of you, not a word to my wife; unless, of course, some one has spread the news; not a word else, Kingcote. You don’t know the effect it will have upon her. I beg you to be cautious.” Kingcote retraced his steps through the rain. Overtaking the porter, he got such further details as the man could furnish. Then he went on to the rectory. Mrs. Vissian had heard nothing. He entered the study and awaited the rector’s arrival. The three sat together through the evening. Even in its modified form, the news was bad enough. Mr. Vissian softened it a little in telling his wife. She, good-hearted creature, shed many tears. Percy, when he heard what had happened, said nothing; but his imagination evidently became very busy; he sat on the hearth-rug before the fire, till at length a question shaped itself. “Has Mrs. Clarendon hurt her face?” he asked. “I think not,” replied his father. “It won’t be altered? It’ll be the same as it was before?”