They soon reached the hushed, dark home. A long trail of blood lay in ruddy streaks from the gateway to the door where the white crape swayed so gently--so gently. Elliott walked slowly and as if stunned. He went into the house, turned and looked about him. The parlor door was slightly open. He went in and began to walk the floor--the resource of those who suffer. There are instincts for all the crises of life--he felt that he was not alone. Nervously he unclasped and threw open the window blind, then, turning, cast his eyes sadly about him. There sat the old father in a posture of dejection, his eyes almost closed. Just beyond lay his child! Clasping his hands with an expression full of the most violent, most gentle entreaty, Elliott uttered a piercing cry! “Dorothy! Dorothy, my little girl, come back to me! Come back!” And with this appeal he sank upon his knees with both hands upon his eyes. “Elliott! Elliott!” He raised his head at length and looked steadily at Mr. Carr--this venerable, manly face, upon which God had imprinted goodness and heroism. “Yes, father,” and leaning forward he embraced his white head. Drawing it to his breast, his overcharged heart found relief in tears. The intense calm and silence of the father’s beautiful, mute resignation finally silenced him. Rigid before the fire, as if it were a charmed flame that was turning him old, he sat, with the dark lines deepening in his face; its stare becoming more and more haggard; its surface turning whiter and whiter, as if it were being overspread with ashes--the very texture and color of his hair appearing to change. A sunbeam shot in and faltered over the face of the girl asleep. This fair, white bride, robed in her wedding gown. Elliott got up and went to her side. He turned away again, and dropped upon the broad divan, utterly helpless, hopeless. Here he lay face downward, with his elbows on the cushions and his hands clutching his chin, his sad eyes staring steadily. He lay for hours gazing upon her face, moving not from the first position he had assumed. He took no heed of time--time and he were separate that day. He was neither hungry nor thirsty--only sick at the heart which lay like lead in him. By and by a long procession was seen moving from the house. Six bearers deposited their burden. Dorothy’s grave had been made beside her mother’s in the family burying ground, at the back of the garden. CHAPTER XX. The preliminary inquiry into the case of Ephriam Cooley resulted in his being held over to the next meeting of the Grand Jury, which was yet some months away. Mr. Carr was not left alone in his grief. Elliott Harding gave up residence at his uncle’s home and went to live with and care for him.