The cart rumbled across a little bridge, and left the lake, and, as they went carefully along the rutted lane, Theresa could look into the fields where lambs were sleeping. At their passing, a sheep cried out with a loud and bitter melancholy, voicing a dumb, bewildered world, and it was like waking from a long dream when the jolting ceased. The driver was speaking to someone in the road; she could not distinguish the words, and she sat passive, huddled in her coat and rugs, until the cart should move on again. It seemed impossible that it should have stopped; her body was still conscious of the movement, and she was swaying lightly. The boy's unwrapping of the rugs aroused her. She heard the unseen person pass behind the cart, and saw a man's figure standing by the wheel. "Is that you, Theresa?" "Yes." "I want you to get out here." "Yes." She took his hand and stepped stiffly to the ground. "Give me the bag, Jack. You can turn here, can't you? Good-night." They stood together near the churchyard yews, and the stars lighted their faces. They did not speak. For Theresa, the world had fallen away, and nothing remained but this patch of earth on which she and Alexander stood. That isolation passed, the trees came back and the hills, and while he was still looking at her, she touched him lightly on the sleeve. "Tell me." "It's your father. My father--I told him not to come." "I know. I didn't know until last night. I read your letter. Please will you tell me everything? I want to know at once if he is dead." "Yes, he's dead." "It's all right. I am not going to fall." "My father shot him. Then himself. I--he was mad. It is my fault; but I didn't know how mad--and I warned him. They're both dead, two of them. I saw my father fall. And yours spoke to me as I passed. He said: 'Send for Theresa.'" "I think I'd like to hold your hand. Thank you. Are you sure he's dead?" "Quite sure. And he died happy. He was smiling. It seemed--it seemed as if it were what he had been wanting. It may be that the dead are always glad." "When was it?" "Last night. He was with my mother in the kitchen. I didn't know my father had a pistol, but then, I ought to have known. We've lived with it so long, it has seemed part of life. I didn't understand how bad he was. Theresa, my father's murdered yours." "Yes, yes. Never mind." She held very tightly to his hand. "Never mind. He wouldn't like you to be sad. Oh"--her voice quavered on the stillness, and she dropped against him--"oh, Alexander, take care of me for a little while." Her face was against the rough fabric of his sleeve. He loosed her hand and put his arm about her, holding her steadily, and so they stood beneath the yews. Each stirred at the same moment, and, without a word, walked on. At the house end Alexander stopped and spoke quietly. "Janet is with my mother. She is afraid to leave her. You are to have my room. Tread softly: she may be sleeping."