The crowd was gathering round the lake, and his heart flew to his children. But he caught sight of his wife standing against a tree, holding George to her side against the folds of her beautiful dress. That she was agitated with some great emotion, there could be no doubt: her breath was laboured, her face white as death. "What is the matter? What has happened?" cried Mr. St. John, halting for a moment his fleet footsteps. "They say--that--Benja's--drowned," she answered, hesitating between every word. He did not wait to hear the conclusion: he bounded on to the brink of the lake, throwing off his coat as he ran, ready to plunge in after his beloved child. But one had been before him: and the first object Mr. Carleton saw as the crowd parted for him, was the dog Brave, swimming to shore with Benja. "Good dog! Brave! Brave! Come on, then, Brave! Good old dog! Save your playfellow! Save the heir of Alnwick!" All safe. Only on the bank did the good dog loose the clothes from between his firm teeth, and release Benja. Mr. St. John, more emotion on his face than had been seen there since the death of that child's mother, caught the boy with one hand and caressed Brave with the other. His wife had not stirred. She stood there, calm, still, as one stunned. Was she frightened? those who had leisure to glance at her asked it. Had her love for her stepson, her dread at losing him, transformed her into a statue? It was not that she was so much frightened; it was not that she loved Benja. Perhaps she was as yet unconscious of what feelings the moment had served to arouse; partially unconscious that the thought which had blanched her face with emotion and wildly stirred the pulses of her beating heart, was one fraught with danger: if Benja were drowned, her child would be the heir. Voices were calling out that the boy was dead, and Mrs. St. John lifted her face, a sort of haggard, yearning look upon it. But Mr. Carleton, the boy pressed in his warm arms, knew that he was only insensible. He was hastening to the house, Honour, half frightened to death, at his side, and eager sympathizers following in his wake, when he bethought him of his wife. "Honour, just run and tell your mistress that he'll be all right soon. She's there; under the elm-trees." "Is he dead?" she asked ere Honour could speak, as the girl went up. "Oh no, madam, he's not dead, thank Heaven! My master has sent me to tell you that he is all right." Mrs. St. John did not appear to understand. It seemed to Honour--and the girl was a quick observer--as if her mistress had been so fully persuaded he was dead that her senses were at first sealed to the contrary impression, and could not admit it. "Not dead?" she repeated, mechanically. "He is not dead," said Honour. "He is in no danger of dying now."