The wind sobbed a dirge in the bare boughs above, but beside that, all the country-side was still. The girl hung heavy and limp in his arms as he bore her to the road. She made no answer to his cry--he felt blindly for a pulse--a heart--but found none. One short, sharp gasp convulsed her breast as he gently laid her down--a faint tremor passed over her frame, and she was dead! John Holmes looked into her face, distraught with agony. The blood drummed in his ears, his heart beat wildly; dazed and bewildered, a moment he stood--the power of action almost paralyzed. But he felt that something must be done, and done quickly. With a superhuman effort he lifted the dead girl and carried her toward her home. When he reached the door, after what seemed an eternity of travel, he waited, struggling for composure. How could he meet her father and break the news? Seeing no one around he slipped quietly in and laid the body upon a couch in the room which so long had been her own. When he entered the father’s room a deep calm filled the place. There sat the old man in his armchair, his head fallen to one side in the unstudied attitude of slumber. Upon his face there was more than a smile--a radiance--his countenance was lit up with a vague expression of content and happiness. His white hairs added sweet majesty to the cheerful light upon his face. He slept peacefully--perhaps dreaming that his child was well and would soon be home. An inexpressible pity was in his voice as John Holmes gently aroused the sleeper and told him the mournful truth. He would never forget that old face so full of startled grief--that awful appeal to him--that withered hand upraised to heaven. Then darkness came before the dim old eyes, when for a time all things were blotted out of his remembrance. The truth was so terrible that at first he could not grasp it. The moan he uttered was inarticulate and stifled. Gently John Holmes led him tremblingly to the couch where Dorothy lay--the blood still oozing from her throat; the dew of agony yet fresh on her brow, her dainty nostrils expanded by their last convulsive effort to retain the breath of life, appearing almost to quiver. A moment, motionless and staring, he stood above her--dead! Slowly awaking to the awful reality, he threw his hands up with the vehemence of despair and horror--then fell forward by her side, saying by the motion of his lips, “Dead!” Slowly his speech returned, and he reached out one hand. “My boy, she is not dead. I feel her heart in mine, I see her love for me in her face. No! she is not dead!--not dead!” his voice fell to a whispered groan. The other tried to stay his tears and to reply, but he could only touch her cold, bruised hand, hoping that he might grow to a perfect understanding of the tragedy. The father turned his head. His look was full of supplicating agony. In a plaintive and quivering voice he cried: “My God! My God! My God!”