Had Hildred heard it? That must be thought of first of all. Would there be time to stop them from telling her suddenly?--Hildred, who sometimes fancied that he was coming home, that he was near to her. Old Esther Reynolds knew it--the greatest gossip in the village, to whom the telling of a bit of news was as the breath of life. No thought for Hildred would keep her silent, if she had the chance of spreading such a story as this. There was not a moment to be lost. It was a clear frosty night, and the stars were shining. Every distant noise sounded distinct and close at hand. My own footsteps rang on the frozen road. Very soon I heard them singing, the well-known carol waxing louder every minute as I got near to them, sounding so strangely discordant to my ears, which were still tingling with the death news. Voices were singing, and church-bells chimed, the stars gleamed and sparkled like silver fire over the living, busy, holiday-keeping world, and Cuthbert was dead. For a minute I stood still and gathered breath. How was it possible to tell Hildred, whose voice I fancied I could hear already rising clear above the rest--how would it be possible to go on and tell her that her lover lay dead, killed, buried in a far distant grave? What would she say? How could she bear it, when the mere thought of the words that must be spoken were making my heart beat too heavily for speech? Need I say anything yet? Surely nobody would tell her to-night. I would keep near her, and when this singing, that was such a mockery, was over, perhaps some words would be given me, some words, if such there were, that would make the blow fall less cruelly. But the next moment I started forward again. There was a confused murmur, a movement in the group; some of the people stopped singing, and then came a sudden, sharp, half-choked cry, and the music ceased altogether. They had got a lantern; some one held it up, and the light fell on the face of Esther Reynolds standing there among them. I was too late. Someone called out my name, and then Hildred, ghastly white in the cold star-light, turned and met me, with her hands stretched out before her. 'It isn't true! Willie, tell me it isn't true.' 'My poor Hildred!' I took the hands so pitifully held out, but she snatched them away, throwing them wildly up into the air, and then with a long sobbing moan she fell down upon her knees. The women gathered round her compassionately, and raised her up from the hard road, weeping with her, and trying to quiet her by kindly pitying words, of which she took no heed. Esther Reynolds was wringing her hands, and saying over and over again, 'Oh poor lamb! I would not have told if I'd known she'd have taken on like this. What can I do for her, poor lamb?' What could she do? What could any one do, but stand by helplessly, watching the poor child struggle through the first bitterness of her sorrow? No one could bear the blow instead of her, or ease her pain.