Edward got out his hand from under Charles to take his hat off, and said: "My dog is dead." "I am extremely sorry, but it was the dog's fault," said the voice, aggressively. "Yes," said Edward. "There's nothing to be done," said the voice. "It was nearly a nasty accident for us." "I apologize for my dog's conduct," said Edward, formally. And then came another voice, "But, Aunt Loo, can't we _do_ anything?" Of course you will have known all along whose voice that would be. Edward was less discerning. He had been far too much occupied with Charles and the horse to do more than realize that the two people in the cart were women--and now when he heard again the voice that had talked to him yesterday in the freshness of the morning, the shock sent his blood surging. He looked up--face, neck, ears were burning. Men do not blush, but if they did you would have said that Mr. Basingstoke blushed in that hour. He looked up. Holding the reins was a hard, angular woman of fifty, the sort that plays golf and billiards and is perfectly competent with horses. Beside her sat the girl, and under her white hat the crimson of her face matched his own. The distress he felt at this unpropitious coincidence deepened his color. Hers deepened, too. "You can't do anything, thank you," he said, just a moment too late. For his pause had given the aunt time to look from one to the other. "Oh!" she said, shortly. The girl spoke, also just too late. "At least, let us take the poor, dear dog home for you," she said. "By all means," said the aunt, with an air of finality. "Where shall we leave it?" "I am at the Five Bells, in Jevington," said Edward, and was thankful to feel his ears a shade less fiery. "I see," said the aunt, with hideous significance. "Put it in at the back, will you?" She spoke as though Charles were a purchase she had just made and Mr. Basingstoke the shopman. He would have liked to refuse, but how dear of her to suggest it. "Thank you," he said, and came through the dust to the back of the cart. Almost before he had replaced the second pin the cart moved, and he was left alone in the white road. The way home was long and dismal--its only incident the finding of a little white handkerchief in the dust about a mile from the scene of the tragedy. It was softly scented. Of course it might be Aunt Loo's handkerchief, but he preferred to think that it was Hers. He shook the dust from it and put it in his pocket. As he came down the village street he remembered how, only yesterday, he had heard, just here by the saddler's, that strangled, choking bark which betokened Charles's recognition of his master's approach. Well, there would be no such barking welcome for him now.