In looking back I think that I must have had a very obedient nature, for I was ever willing to listen to orders or suggestions, however unpalatable they might be. Passing through the back-door, the nearest way to the square pond, to which Tom had gone, I looked out. Twilight was already setting in. The evening star twinkled in a clear, frosty sky. The moon shone like a silver shield. "Before you could get to the square pond, Master Charley, it would be dark," said Leah, as she stood beside me. "So it would," I assented. "I think I'll not go, Leah." "And I'm sure you don't need to tire yourself for to-night," went on Leah. "There'll be romping enough and to spare if those boys and girls come." I went back to the parlour. Leah walked to the side gate, wondering (as she said afterwards) what had come to the milkman, for he was generally much earlier. As she stood looking down the lane, she saw Tom stealing up. "He has been in some mischief," decided Leah. "It's not like _him_ to creep up in that timorous fashion. Good patience! Why, the lad must have had a fright; his face is white as death." "Leah!" said the boy, shrinking as he glanced over his shoulder. "Leah!" "Well, what on earth is it?" asked Leah, feeling a little dread herself. "What have you been up to at that pond? You've not been in it yourself, I suppose!" "Papa--the parson--is lying in the road by the triangle, all pale and still. He does not move." Whenever Master Tom Heriot saw a chance of scaring the kitchen with a fable, he plunged into one. Leah peered at him doubtfully in the fading light. "I think he is dead. I'm sure he is," continued Tom, bursting into tears. This convinced Leah. She uttered a faint cry. "We took that way back from the square pond; I, and Joe and Bertie Penthorn. They were going home to get ready to come here. Then we saw something lying near the triangle, close to that heap of flint-stones. It was _him_, Leah. Oh! what is to be done? I can't tell mamma, or poor Charley." James ran up, all scared, as Tom finished speaking. He had found Dobbin at the stable-door, without sign or token of his master. Even yet I cannot bear to think of that dreadful night. We _had_ to be told, you see; and Leah lost no time over it. While Tom came home with the news, Joe Penthorn had run for his father, and Bertie called to some labourers who were passing on the other side of the triangle. He was brought home on a litter, the men carrying it, Mr. Penthorn walking by its side. He was not dead, but quite unconscious. They put a mattress on the study-table, and laid him on it. He had been riding home from the funeral. Whether Dobbin, usually so sure-footed and steady, had plunged his foot into a rut, just glazed over by the ice, and so had stumbled; or whether something had startled him and caused him to swerve, we never knew. The Rector had been thrown violently, his head striking the stones.