They separated. George tore down the road, wondering how he should fulfil his father's injunction not to frighten Mrs. Ryle in telling the news. Molly, very probably looking after her sweetheart, was standing at the fold-yard gate as he passed. George sent her into the house the front way, and bade her whisper to Nora to come out; to tell her "somebody" wanted to speak to her. Molly obeyed; but executed her commission so bunglingly, that not only Nora, but Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn came flocking to the porch. George could only go in then. "Don't be frightened, mamma," he said, in answer to their questions. "My father has had a fall, and--and says he cannot walk home. Perhaps he has sprained his ankle." "What has become of your jacket and waistcoat?" cried Nora, amazed to see George standing in his shirt-sleeves. "They are safe enough. Is John Pinder still in the kitchen?" continued George, escaping from the room. Trevlyn ran after him. "George, have you been fighting?" he asked. "Is your jacket torn to ribbons?" George drew the boy into a dark angle of the passage. "Treve," he whispered, "if I tell you something about papa, you won't cry out?" "No, I won't cry out," answered Treve. "We must get a stretcher of some sort up to him, to bring him home. I am going to consult John Pinder." "Where is papa?" interrupted Treve. "Lying in a ditch in the large meadow. Chattaway's bull has attacked him. I am not sure but he will die." The first thing Treve did _was_ to cry out. George put his hand over his mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who were full of curiosity, both as to George's jacketless state and George's news, had followed into the passage. Treve began to cry. "He has dreadful news about papa, he says," sobbed Treve. "Thinks he's dead." It was all over. George must tell now, and he could not help himself. "No, no, Treve, you should not exaggerate," he said, turning to Mrs. Ryle in his pain and earnestness. "There is an accident, mamma; but it is not so bad as that." Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure; very few people had seen _her_ ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her husband had little need to caution George as he had done. She laid her hand upon George's shoulder and looked calmly into his face. "Tell me the truth," she said in tones of quiet command. "What is the injury?" "I do not know yet----" "The truth, boy, I said," she sternly interposed. "Indeed I do not yet know what it is. He has been attacked by Chattaway's bull." It was Nora's turn now. "By Chattaway's bull?" she shrieked. "Yes," said George. "It must have happened immediately after he left here at tea-time, and he has been lying ever since in the ditch in the upper meadow. I put my jacket and waistcoat over him; he was shivering with cold and pain."