They would go to the village, Guy said, hoping that the doctor might be persuaded to accompany them. 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 the point of mounting his horse and galloping off alone, when Guy drove up with Jessie. It was five miles from Devonshire to Honedale, and when they reached a hill which lay half way 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 Devonshire 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 task was nearly done, and 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 aloud, while every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon the hearts of the young men, who a few weeks ago did not know that Maddy Clyde had ever had existence. How long it seemed before another stroke, and Guy was beginning to hope they had heard the last when again the sound came floating on the air, and Dr. Holbrook’s lip quivered as _he_ now counted aloud, “one, two, three, four, five.” That was all; the bell stopped; and vain were all their listenings to catch another sound. Fifteen years only 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 speak but once, when she asked Guy “If it was very far to heaven, and if he supposed Maddy had got there by this time?” “Hush, Jessie; don’t ask such questions,” Guy said; then turning to his companion, he continued: “We’ll go just the same. I will do what I can for the old man;” and so the carriage drove on, down the hill, across the meadow land, and passed a low-roofed house, whose walls inclosed the stiffened form of the boy for whom the bell had tolled, and who had been the patient of another than Dr. Holbrook.