William King stood bolt upright, motionless, his lips parted. Mrs. Richie caught at his arm, and the lantern swinging sharply, scattered a flying shower of light; they were both rigid, straining their ears, not breathing. There was no sound except the vague movement of the leaves overhead, and faintly, from across the meadow--"_Bob-white! bob-white!_" "I thought--I heard--" the doctor said in a whisper. Helena, clutching at his arm, reeled heavily against him. "Yes. It was. That was what it was." "No! Impossible!" he stammered. And they stood listening breathlessly; then, just as the strain began to relax, down through the darkness from the house behind the trees came a cry: "Dr. King--" An instant later the sound of flying steps on the gravel, and a girl's shrill voice: "Dr. King!" "Here, Lydia!" William said, running towards the little figure; "what's the matter!" Helena, in the shadow of the gate-post, only caught a word: "Sam--" And the doctor and the child were swallowed up in the night. When William King came out of that house of confusion and death, he found her huddled against the gate-post, haggard, drenched with dew, waiting for him. He started, with a distressed word, and lifted her in his arms. "Oh, you ought not to be here; I thought you had gone home long ago!" "_Dead?_" "Yes." "He--shot-- "Yes. Poor boy; poor, foolish, crazy boy! But it wasn't your fault. Oh, my poor child!" She shivered away from him, then without a word turned towards Old Chester. The doctor walked at her side. It was nearly three, and very dark. No one saw them as they went through the sleeping streets; at William's house she stopped, with a silent gesture of dismissal. "I am going to take you home," he said gently. And a few minutes later he began to tell her about it. "He was dead when I got there. They think it was an accident; and it is best they should. I am afraid I'll have to explain to my wife, because she saw your apprehension. But nobody else need know. Except--I must tell Dr. Lavendar, of course; but not until after the funeral. There is no use complicating things. But other people can just think it was an accident. It was, in one way. He was insane. Everybody is, who does--that. Poor Samuel! Poor Mrs. Wright! I could not leave them; but I thought you had gone home, or I would have come. Mrs. Richie, promise me one thing: promise me not to feel it was your fault." She dropped her face in her hands. "Not my fault! ... I killed him." CHAPTER XXIV "He was cleaning his father's pistol, and it went off--" the poor, dazed mother said, over and over. The father said nothing. He sat, his elbow on his knee, his forehead resting in the palm of his hand. Sometimes his heavy eyes glanced up, but he did not lift his head. He had hardly spoken since the accident. Then, he had said to William King: