The Last Stroke.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 18, Issue 90, 8 November 1907, Page 2

The Last Stroke.

BY ] '?? *F, rTi LAWRENCE L. LYNCH.

PART 1?

CHAPTER L

It was a May morning in Glcnville. Pretty, picturesque Glcnville, low lying by the lake shore, with th« waters of the lake surging to meet It, or coyly receding from it, on th« one side, and the green-clad hilla rising gradually and gently on the other, ending in'a belt of trees at the very horizon’s edge. There is little movement in the quiet streets of the town at halfpast eight o’clock in the morning, save for the youngsters who, walking, running, leaping, sauntering or waiting idly, one for another, are, or should be, on their way to the school house which stands upon the very southernmost outskirts of the town, and a little way up the hilly slope, at a reasonably safe remove from the willow-fringed lake shore. The Glcnville school house was one of the earliest public buildings erected in the village, and it had been “located’’ in what was confidently expected to bo the centre of the place. But the new and late-coming impetus, which had changed the hamlet of half a hundred dwellings to one of twenty times that number, and mafic of it a quiet and not too fashionable little summer resort, had carried the business of the place northward, and its residences still farther north, thus leaving this seat of learning aloof from, and quite above thu newer tovyx, in isolated and lofty dignity, surrounded by trees; in the outskirts, in fact, of a second belt of wood, which girdled tho lake shore, even as tho further and loftier fringe of timber outlined tho hilltops to tho edge of the eastern horizon and far away. “J'.cs call ’er tho 'cadcmy?” suggested Elias Robbins, one of tho builders of tho school house, and an early settlor of Glcnville. “What’s to hinder?” “Nothin’,” declared John Rote, the village oracle. “Twill sound first

rate.” They were standing outside the building, just completed and resplendent in two coats of yellow paint, and they wore just from the labor of putting in, “hangin' the now bell. All of masculine Olonville was present, and the other sex was not without representation. “Suits mo down ter the ground!” commented a third citizen; and no doubt it would have suited the majority, but when I’arson Ryder was consulted, ho smiled genially and shook his head. “It won’t do, I’m afraid, Elias,” ho said. "VVc'ro only a village as yet, you see, and wo can’t even dub It the High School, except from a geographical point of view. However, we are bound to grow, and oiir titles will come with the growth.” The growth, after a time, began; but it was only a summer growth; and the school house Avas still a village school house with its master and one phder, or primary, teacher; and to-ddy there was a frisking group of the smaller youngsters rushing about the school yard, while the first bell rang out, and half a dozen of the Older pupils clustered about the girlish under-teacher, full of questions and wohder; for Johnny Robbins, whoso turn it was to ring ■ the bell this week, after watching the clock, and the path up the hill, alternately, until the time for the first bell hud came, and was actually twenty seconds past, had reluctantly but firmly seized the rope and begun to pull. “ ’Taint no use, Miss Grant; I'll have to do it. Ho told mo not to wait for nothin’, never, when 'twas half past eight, and so”—cling, clang, cling—“l’m bound” —cling— “tor do it!” Clang “yo see,” cling, “oven if ho aint hero-” Clang, clang, ilang. The boy pulled lustily at the rope for about half as long as usual, and then ho stopped. “You don’t s’poso that clock c’ud bo wrong, do yo'. Miss Grant? Mr. Bricrly’s never been later’n quarter past before.” Miss Grant turned her wistful and Bomovyhat anxious eyes toward the eastern horizon ami rested a hand upon the shoulder of a tall girl at Upr side. ’’lie may bo 111. Johnny," she said, reluctantly, “or his watch may bo wrong. Tie’s sure to come in time (or morning song service. Come, Meta, let us go in and look at those tractions.” Five ten fifteen minutes passed and the two heads bent still over book and slate. Twenty minutes, and ( Johnny’s head appeared at the door, half a dozen others behind it. “Has ho come, Johnny?” “No’m, shan’t I go an’ see—” But Miss Grant arose, stopping him with a gesture. “Ho would laugh at us, Johnny.” Then, with another look at the anxious faces, “Veit until nine o'clock, nt least.” Johnny and his followers wont sul« lonly back to the porch and Meta’s lip began to quiver. ''Somethin's happened to him. Miss Grant,” she whimpered; "I know somethin’ has happened!” “Nonsense,” said Miss Grant. But she went to Hie window and culled to a little girl nt play upon the

green. "jMellio Fry! Come luge, dear.” Nellie Fry, an a, b, e student, came running in. her yellow locks flying straight behind her. “What is it, Miss Grant?” "Nellie, did you see Mr. Briorly at breakfast?” “Yes m!”

“Ami quite well?” "Why 1 guess so. Ho talked Just like he does always, and asked the blessin’. He he ale a lot, too for him. I ’member ma ipoakin’ of it.” “You remember, Nellie.” Miss Craut kissed the child and walked to her desk, bending over her roll call, and scorning busy over it until the clock upon the opposite wall struck the hour of nine, and Johnny’s face appeared at the door simultaneously, with the Inst stroke ”J»h'U 1 ring. Miss Grant?”

"Yog." The girl spoke with sudden decision, “Ring the bell, and then go at once to Mrs. Fry’s house and ask if anything has happened to detain Mr. Brierly. Don’t loiter, Johnny.” There was an unwonted flush upon the girl’s usually pale cheeks, and sudden energy in her step and voice. The school building contained but two rooms, beside the large hall, and the cloak rooms upon either side; and as the scholars trooped in, taking their respective places with more than their usual readiness, but With unusual bustle and exchange of whispers and inquiring looks, the slender girl went once more to the entrance and looked up and down the path from the village. There was no one in sight, and she turned and put her hand upon the swaying boll rope. “Stop it, Johnny! There’s surely something wrong! Go, now, and ask after Mr. Brierly. He must bo ill!”

“He’d 'a sent word, sure,”- said the boy with conviction, as he snatched his hat from its nail. But Miss Grant only waved him away and entered the south room, whom the elder pupils were now, for tho most part, assembled. "Girls and boys,” she said, tho color still burning in her cheeks, “something has delayed Mr. Brierly. I hope it will be for a short time only. In the meantime, until wc know—know what to expect, you will, of course, keep your places and take up ,your studies. I am sure I can trust you to be as quiet and studious as if your teacher were here; and while we wait, and I begin my lessons, I shall set no monitor over you. I am sure you will not need one.” The pupils of Charles Brierly were ruled by gentleness and love, and they were loyal to so mild a ruler. With low whispers, and words of acquiescence, they took up their books, and Miss Grant went back to her more restless small people, leaving the connecting door between tho north and south rooms open. Mrs. Fry’s cottage was in the heart of tho village, and upon the hillside, but Johnny stayed for nothing, running hither, hat in hand, and returning panting, and with a troubled face.

“Miss Grant,” he panted, bursting into her presence with scant ceremony, “he aint there! Mrs. Fry says he came to school before eight o’clock. He went out while she was combin’ Nellie’s hair, an' she aint scon him since!”

Hilda Grant walked slowly down from her little platform and advanced. with a waving movement, until she stood in the doorway between the two rooms. The color had all faded from her face, and she put a hand against the door pane as if to steady herself, and seemed to control or compose herself with an effort.

“Boys—children—have any of you seen Mr. Brierly this morning?” For a moment there was utter silence in the school room. Then, slowly, and with a sheepish shuffling movement, a stolid-faced boy made his way out from one of the side seats in Miss Grant’s room, and came toward her without speaking. He was meanly dressed in garments ill-matched and worse fitting; his arms wore abnormally long, his shoulders rounded and stooping, and his eyes were at once dull and furtive. Ho was the largest pupil, and the dullest, in Miss Grant’s charge, and as ho came toward her, still silent but with his mouth half open, some of the little ones tittered audibly. “Silence!” said the teacher, sternly. (‘Peter, come here.” Her ton* grew suddenly gentle. “Have you seen Mr. Brierly this morning?” 1 “Uh hum!” The boy stopped short and hung his head. “That’s good news, Peter. Tell me where you saw him.”

“Down there,” nodding toward the lake. “At the —lake?^ “Yep!” “How long ago, Peter?” ” Toro school —hour, maybe. “How far away, Peter?” “Big ways. Most by Injun Hill.'' “Ah! and what was he doing?” “Sot on ground—lookin’.”

“Miss Grant!” broke in the boy Johnny. -“He was goin’ to shoot at a mark; I guess he'd got a now target down there, an’ some of the boys shoots there, you know. —Gracious!” his eyes suddenly widening, “Dy’u s’pose he’s got hurt, anyway?” Miss Grant turned quickly toward the-simpleton, " “Peter, you are sure it was this morning that you saw Mr. Brierly?” “Uh hum.” “And, was he alone?” *<Uh hum.” “Who else did you see down there. Peter?”

The boy lifted his arm, shielding his eyes with it as if he expected a blow.

“I bet some one’s tried ter hit him!” commented Johnny.

“Hush, Johnny! Peter, what is it? Did some one frighten you?” The boy wagged his head, “Who was it?” "N—Nothin’—” Peter began to whimper. “You must answer me, Peter; was anyone else by the lake? Whom else did you see?” “A—a—ghost!” blubbered the boy, and this as all she could gain from him.

And now the children began to whisper, and some of the elder to suggest possibilities. “Maybe he’s met a trnmp." “P'r’aps he’s sprained his ankle!” "PVaps he's failed into the lake, teacher,” piped a six-year-old. ‘Toh!” retorted a small boy. "He kin swim like—anything.” “Children, bo silent!” A look of annoyance had suddenly relaxed the strained, set look of the under teacher's white face as she recalled, at the moment, how she had heard Mr. .Samuel Doran—president of the board of school directors —ask Mr. liricrly to drop in at his office that morning to look at some specimen school books. That was the evening before, and, doubtless, he was there now.

Miss Grant bit her lip, vexed at her folly and fright. But after a moment’s reflection she turned again to Johnny Bobbins, saying;

’’Johnny, will you go back ns far as -Mr. Doran’s house? Oo to the office door, and if Mr. Brierly is there, as I think he will bo, ask him if lie would like me to hear his classes until he is at liberty.”

Again the ready messenger caught up his flapping straw hat. while a i little tluttar of raliof ran thrauah the

school, and Miss Grant went back to her desk, the look of vexation still upon her face.

Five minutes’ brisk trotting brought Um boy to Mr. Doran’s door, which was much nearer than tire Fry homestead, and less than five minutes found him again at the school house door.

“Miss Grant,” he cried, excitedly, “he wa’n't there, nor haint been; an’ Mr. Doran’s startin’ right out, with two or three other men, to hunt him. He says there’s somethin' wrong about it.”

CHAPTER 11, “I suppose it’s all right,’' said Samuel Doran, as he walked toward the school house, followed by three or four of the villagers, “called” because of their nearness, rather than “chosen;” “but Brierly's certainly the last man to let any ordinary matter keep him from his post. We’ll hear what Miss Grant has to say.” Miss Grant met the group at the gate, and when she had told them all she had to tell, ending with the testimony of the boy Peter, and the suggestion concerning the targetshooting. “Sho!” broke in one of the men, as she was about to express her personal opinion and her fears, “that’s the top an’ bottom of the hull business! Brierly’s regularly took with ashootin' at a mark. I’vc been out with him two or three evenings of laic, lie’s just got iut’nistod, and forgot tor look at his watch. We’ll find him safe enough som’e’res along the bank; let’s cut across the woods.”

“He must have heard the bell,” objected Mr. Doran, “but, of course, if Peter Kramer saw him down there, that’s our way. Don’t be anxious, Miss Grant; probably Hopkins is

right.” The road which they followed for some distance ran a somewhat devious course through Uio wood, which one entered very soon after leaving tho school house. It ran along the hillside, near its base, but .still somewhat above the stretch of ground, fully a hundred yards in width, between it and the lake shore.

Above the road, to eastward, the wooded growth climbed the gentle upward slope, growing, as it seemed, more and more dense and shadowy as it mounted. But between the road and the river the trees grew less, densely, with numerous sunny openings, but with much undergrowth, here and there, of hazel and sumach, wild vinos, and along the border of the lake the low overhanging scrub willow.

For more than a fourth of a mile the four men followed the road, walking in couples, and not far apart, and contenting themselves with an occasional “hallo, Brierly,” and with peering into the openings through which they could see the lake shore as they passed along. A little further on, however, a bit of rising ground cut off all sight of the lake for a short distance. It was an oblong mound, so shapely, so evenly proportioned that it had become known as the Indian Mound, and was believed to have been the work of the aboriginese, a prehistoric fortification, or burial place. As they came opposite this mound the man Hopkins stopped, saying: “Hadn’t a couple of us fellers better go round the mound on t’ollfbr side? Course, if he’s on the bank, an’ all right, he’d ort to hear us but —” “Yes,” broke in the leader, who had been silent and very grave for some moments. “Go that way, Hopkins, and we’ll keep to the road and meet you at the further end of the mound.”

They separated silently, and for some moments Mr. Doran and his companions walked on, still silent, then —

“Wo ought to have brought that simpleton along,’’ Doran said, as if meditating. “The Kramers live only a quarter of a mile beyond the mound, and it must have been near here —Stop!” He drew his companions back from the track, as a pony’s head appeared around a curve in the road; and then, as a black Shetland and low phaeton came in sight, he stepped forward again, and took off his hat. He was squarely in the middle of the road, and the lady in the little phaeton pulled up her pony and met his gaze with, a look of mute inquiry. She was a small, fair woman, with pale, regular features and largo blue eyes. She was dressed in mourning, and, beyond a doubt, was not a native of Glenville.

“Excuse my haste, ma’am,” said Doran, coming to the side of the phaeton. “I’m James Doran, owner of the stable where this horse belongs, and wo arc out in search of our. schoolmaster. Have you seen a talf, young man along this road anywere?”

The lady was silent a moment, then—“ Was ho a fair young man?” she asked, slowly. “Yes, tall and fair.”

The lady gathered up her reins. “I passed such a person,” she said, “when I drove out of town shortly after breakfast. He was going south, ns I was. It must have been somewhere not far from this place.” “And did you see his face?” “No; the pony was fresh then, and I was intent upon him,” She lifted the reins, and then turned as if to speak again when the man who had been a silent witness of the little dialogue came a step nearer.

“I s-posc you hav’n’t heard any noise a pistol shot nor anythin’ like that, have ye, ma’am?” “Mercy! No, indeed! IVhy what has happened?” Before either could answer, there came a shout from the direction of the lake shore. “Doran, come —quick!” They were directly opposite the mound, at its central or highest point, and, turning swiftly, James Doran saw the man Hopkins at the top of it, waving his arms frantically. “Is he found?” called Doran, moving toward him. “Y&s. He’s hurt!” With the words Hopkins disappeared behind the knoll, but Doran was near enough to see that the man’s face was scared and pale. He turned and called sharply to the lady, who had taken up her whip and was driving on.

“Madam, stop! There’s a man hurt. Wait there a moment; we may need your horse.” The last words were uttered as he ran up the mound, his companions close at his heels. And the lady checked the will-

Ing pony once more with a look half reluctant, wholly troubled. “What a position,’’ she said to herself, impatiently. “These villagers are not diffident, upon my word.” A few moments -only had passed when approaching footsteps and the sound of quick panting breaths caused her to turn her head, and she saw James Doran running swiftly toward her, pale faced, and too full of anxiety to bo observant of the courtesies. “You must let me drive back to town with you, madam,” he panted, springing into the little vehicle with a force that tried its springs and wrought havoc with the voluminous folds of the lady’s gown, “We must have tho doctor, and the coroner, too, I fear at once!”

I He put out his hands for j the reins, but she anticipat- ; eel the movement and struck the pony j a sharp and sudden blow that sent j him galloping townward at the top lof his speed, the reins still in her i two small, perfectly-gloved hands, i For a few moments no word was [ spoken; then, without turning her eyes from the road, she asked: “What is it?” I “Death, I’m afraid!” | “What! Not suicide?” j “Never. An accident, of course.” ! “How horrible!” The small hands tightened their grasp upon the reins, and no other word was spoken until they were passing the school house, when she asked, “Who was it?” “( harles Brierly, head teacher, and a good man.” Liss Grant was standing at one of the front windows and she leaned - anxiously out as the little trap dart- ’ eel past. • : “Wo can’t stop,” said Doran, as 1 much to himself as to his compan- : ion. “I must have the pony, ma’am. Where can 1 leave you?”

“Anywhere hero. Is there anything —any message I can deliver? I am a stranger, but I understand the need of haste. Ought not those pupils be sent home?”

He put his hands upon the reins. “Stop him,” ho said. “You are quick to think, madam. Will you lake a message to the school house —to Miss Grant?” “Surely.”

They had passed the school house and as the pony stopped, Doran sprang out and offered his hand, which she scarcely touched in alighting.

“What shall I say?” she asked as she sprang down. “See Miss Grant. Toll her privately that Mr. Briefly has met with an accident, and that the children must be sent home quietly and at once. At once, mind.” “I understand.” She turned away with a quick, nervous movement, but he stooped her. “One moment. Your name, please? Your evidence may be wanted.” “By whom?” “By the coroner; to corroborate our story.”

“I see. I am Mrs. Jamieson; at the Glenvillo House.” She turned from him with the last word, and walked? swiftly back toward the school house. Hilda Grant was still at the window. She had made no attempt to listen to recitations, or even to call the roll; and she hastened out, at sight of the slight black robed figure entering the school yard, her big grey eyes full of the question her lips refused to frame.

They mot at the foot of the steps, and Mrs. Jamieson spoke at once, as if in reply to the wordless inquiry in the other’s face.

“I am Mrs. Jamieson,” she said, speaking low, mindful of the curious faces peering out from two windows, on either side of the open door. “I was stopped by Mr.—”

"Mr. Doran?” "Yes. He wished me to tell you that the teacher, Mr. —" "Brierly?”

“Yes; that he has met with an accident; and that you had better close the school, and send the children homo quiet'y, end at once.” “Oh!” Suddenly the woman’s small figure swayed; she threw out a hand as if for support and, before the half-dazed girl before her could reach her, she sunk weakly upon the lowest step. “Oh!” she sighed again. ‘T did not realize I I believe I am frightened!” And then, as Miss Grant bent over her, she added weakly: “Don’t mind me. I—l'll rest here a moment. Send away your pupils; I only need rest.” When the wondering children had passed out from the school rooms, and were scattering, in slow-moving, eagerly-talking groups, Hilda Grant stood for a moment beside her desk, rigid,' and with all the anguish of her soul revealed, in this instant of solitude, upon her face.

“He is dead!” she murmured. ‘‘l know it, I feel it! He is dead.” Her voice, even to herself, sounded hard and strange. She lifted a cold hand to her eyes, but there were no tears there; and then suddenly, she remembered her guest. A moment latgr, Mrs. Jamieson, walking weakly up the steps, met her coming from the school room with a glass of water in her hand, which she proffered silently. The stranger drank it eagerly. “Thank you,” she said. It is what I need. May I come inside for a little?”

Hilda led the way in silence, and, when her visitor was seated, came ami sat down opposite her. “Will you tell me what you can?” she asked hesitatingly. “Willingly. Only it is so little. I have been for some time a guest at the Clenville House, seeking to rc-

cover, here in your pure air and country quiet, from the effects of sorrow and long illness. I have driven about these hills and along the lake shore almost daily.”

“I hav.* seen you,” said Hilda, “as you ('rove past more than once.” “Ami did you see me this morning?" “No.”

“Still I passed this spot at eight o’clock; I think, perhaps, earlier. My ph; sickin' has cautioned me against long drives and this morning I did not go quite so far as usual, because on yesterday I went too far. 1 had turned my pony toward home just beyond that pretty mill where the little streams join the lake, and was driving slowly homeward when this Mr. Doran—is not that right?— this Mr. Doran stopped me to ask if I had seen a man, a tall, fair man—” “And had you?”

“I told him yes, and in a moment someone appeared at the top of the Indian Mound, and called out that the man was found.” “How-tell me bow?’*

Mrs. Jamieson drew back a little and looked into the girl's face with strange intentness.

"I —I fear he was a friend of yours," she said in a strangely hesitating manner, her eyes swiftly scanning the pale face. "You fear! Why do you fear? Tell me. You say he is injured. Tell me all—the worst!" Still the smart, erect, black-clad figure drew back, a sudden understanding and apprehension dawning in her face. She moved her lips, but no sound came from them.

"Tell me!" cried the girl again. "In mercy—Oh, don’t you understand?" ’

"Yes, I understand now." The lady drew weakly back in the seat and seemed to be compelling her own eyes and lips to steadiness. /j "Listen! We must be calm —both of us. I —l am not strong: I dare not give way. Yes, yes; this is all I can tell you. The man, Mr. Doran asked me to wait in the road with the pony. He came back soon, and 'said that we must find the doctor and the coroner at once; there had been an accident and the man —the one for whom they searched —was dead, he feared.” She sprang suddenly to her feet. "You must not faint. If you do, I—l cannot help you; I ata not strong enough." "I shall not faint,' 2 replied Hilda Grant, in a hard strange voice, and she, too, arose quickly, and went with straight swift steps through the open door between the rooms and out of sight. Mrs. Jamieson stood looking after her for a moment, as if in doubt and wonder; then she put up an unsteady hand and drew down the gauze veil folded back from her close-fitting mourning bonnet, "How strange!" she whispered, "She turns from mo as if —and yet I had to tell her! Ugh! I cannot stay here alone. I shall break down too, and I must not. I must not. Here, and alone!" A moment she stood irresolute, then walking slowly she wont out of the school room, doAvn the stone stops, and through the gate, townward, slowly at first, and then her pace increasing, and a look of apprehension growing in her eyes. "Oh," she murmured as she hurried on, "what a horrible morning!" And then she started hysterically as the shriek of the incoming fast mail train struck her ears. "Oh, how nervous this has made me," she murmured, and drew a sigh of relief j as she paused unsteadily at the door of her hotel. For fully fifteen minutes after . Hilda Grant had reached the empty solitude of her own schoolroom she ! stood crouched against the near "wall her hands clinched and hanging straight at her side, her eyes fixed I on space. Then, with eyes still tearless, but with dry sobs breaking from her throat, she tottered to her seat before the desk, and let her face fall forward upon her arms, moaning from time to time' like ; some hurt animal, and so heedless of j all about her that she did not hear a light step in the hall without, nor | the approach of the man who paused I in the doorway to gaze at her in ! troubled surprise. | He w’as a tall and slender young ‘ fellow, with a handsome face, an eye clear, frank and keen, and a mouth winch, but for the moustache which shadowed it, might have been pronounced too strong for beauty. A moment he stood looking with growing pity upon the grieving woman, and then he turned and silently tip-toed across the room and to the outer door. Standing there he, seemed to ponder, and then, softly stepping back to the vacant platform, he seated himself in the teacher’s chair and idly opened the first of the volumes scattered over the desk, smiling as he read the name, Charles Brierly, written across the fly-leaf. "Poor old Charley," he said to himself as he closed the book. "I wonder how he enjoys his pedagogic venture, the absurd fellow," and then by some strange instinct ho lifted his eyes to the clock on the opposite wall, and the strangeness of the situation seemed to strike him with sudden force and brought him to his feet. What did it mean? This silent school room! These empty desks : and scattered books! Where were , the pupils? the teacher? And why I was that brown-tressed head with , its hidden face bowed down in that . other room in an agony of sorrow?

Half a dozen quick strides brought him again to the door of communication, and this time his strong, lirra footsteps were heard, and the bowed head lifted itself wearily, and the eyes of the two met, each questioning the other. “I beg your pardon,” spoke a rich strong voice. “May I ask where I shall find Mr. Brierly?” Slowly, as if fascinated, the girl came toward him, a look almost of

terror in her face. “Who are you?” she faltered. “1 am Kobert Brierly. I had hoped to find my brother here at his post. Will you tell me—” But the sudden cry from her lips checked him, and the pent-up tears burst forth as Hilda Grant, her heart wrung with pity, flung herself down upon the low platform, and sitting there with her face bunt upon her sleeves, sobbed out her own sorrow 1- in her heart-break o( sympathy for the grief that must soon overwhelm him and strike the happy light from his face. yobs choked her utterance, and the young man stood near her uncertain, anxious, and troubled, until from the direction of the town the sound of flying wheels smote their ears, and Hilda sprang to her feet with a sharp cry. “I must tell you; you must bear it as ■well as.l. Hark! they are going to him; you must go too!” She turned toward the window 1 , swayed heavily, and was caught in his arms.

It was a brief swoon, but when she 1 opened her eyes, and looked about } her, the sound of the Hying wheels I was dying away in the distance, I southward. I He had found the pail of pure I spring water, and applied some of it | to her hands and temples with the i quickness and ease of a woman, and i he now held a glass to her lips. She drank feverishly, put a hand j before her eyes, raised herself with ian effort and seemed to struggle ' mutely for self-control. Then she turned toward him. “I am Hilda Grant,’’’ she said brok . "I am Hilda Grant,” she said brokenly. “My brother’s friend! My sister i that is to bei’-’

''No, no; not now. Something has happened. You should have gone with those men—with the doctor. They are going to bring him back.” "Miss Grant, sister!” His hands had closed firmly upon her wrists, and his voice was firm. "You must tell me the worst, quick. Don’t seek to spare me; think of him! What is it?”

"He—lie went from home early, with his pistol, they say, to shoot at a target. He is dead!”

"Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Whore is he? I must sec, I must. Oh! there must be some horrible mistake,”

He sprang toward the door, but she was before him. “Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south—the lake shore—the Indian Mound.” A moment later a young man with pallid face, set mouth and tragic eyes was flying toward the Indian Mound upon a swift wheel, and in the school room, prone upon the floor a girl lay in a death-like swoon.

CHAPTER III.; "Mr. Brierly, are you strong enough to bear a second shock? 1 must confer with you before before we remove the body.” It was Doctor Barnes who thus addressed Robert Brierly, who, after the first sight of the outstretched figure upon the lake shore, and the first shock of horror and aSnguish, had turned away from the group hovering about the doctor, as ho knelt beside the dead, to face his grid alone.

Doctor Barhes, besides being o skilled physician, possessed three other qualities necessary to a successful career in medicine he was prompt to act," practical and human?.

Robert Brierly was leaning against a tall tree, his back toward the group by the water’s edge, and his face pressed against the tiees rugged trunk. He lifted his head as the doctor spoke, and turned a white, set face toward him. The look in his dark eyes was assurance sufficient that ho was ready to listen and still able to manfully endure another blow.

The two men moved a few steps away, and then the doctor said: "I must be brief. You know, do you not, the theory, that of these men, as-to the cause of this calamity?" "It was an accident, of course.”

"They make it that, or suicide.” "Never! Impossible! My brother was a God-fearing man, a happy man." "Still, there is a bullet hole just where self-inflicted wounds are oftenest made.” Brierly groaned aloud. “Still,” ha persisted, "I will never believe it.” "You need not.” Do t->r Barnes sank his voice to a yet'lowc* pitch. "Mr. Brierly, there is a sr-ond bnl-let-wound in the back!" "The back ! And that means —" "It moans murder, without a doubt. No huntsman could so mistake his mark in this open woodland, along tiie lake. Besides, hunting is not allowed so near the village. Wait," as the young man was about to speak, "wo have no time to discuss motives now, or the possible assassin. What I wish to know is, do you want this fact known now—at once?” "I—l fear I don’t understand. Would you have my brother’s name "Stop, man! Knowing that these men have already jumped at a theory, the thought occurred to me that the work of the officers might be made easier if we let the theory of accident stand."

He broke off, looking keenly at the other. Ho was a good judge of faces, and in that of Robert Brierly he had not bhen deceived.

The young man’s form grew suddenly erect and tense, his eye keen and resolute.

“You am right!” ho said, with sudden energy, as he caught at the other’s hand. “They must not be enlightened yet.” “Then, the sooner wo are back where wo can guard this secret, the safer it will be. Come. This is hard for you, Mr. Briefly, I know, and I could say much. But words, no matter how sincerely sympathetic cannot lighten such a blow as this. I admire your strength, your fortitude, under such a shock. Will you let me add that any service I can render as physician, as man or as friend is yours for the asking?” The doctor hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, and the four watchers beside the body exchanged quick glances of surprise upon seeing the two men grasp hands, silently and with solemn faces, and then turn, still silently, back to the place where the body lay. “Don’t touch that pistol, Doran,” the doctor spoke, in his capacity of coroner.

“Certainly not, Doc. I wanted to feel, if I could, whether those side chambers had been discharged or not. You sec,” he added, rising to his feet, “when we saw this, we knew what wo had to do, and it has been 'hands off.’ We've only used our eyes so far forth.” “And that I wish to do now with more calmness,” said Robert Brierly, coming close to the body and kneeling beside it. It lay less than six feet from the very water’s edge, the body o.f a tall, slender young man, with a delicate, high-bred face that had been fair when living, and was now mar-ble-while, save for the blood-stains upon the right temple, where the bullet had entered. The hair, of that soft blonde color, seen oftenest upon the heads of children, and rarely upon adults, was thick and fine, and long enough to frame the handsome face in close half rings that no barber’s skill could ever subdue or make straight. The hands were long, slender, and soft as a woman’s; the feet small and arched, and the form beneath the loose outlines of the blue flannel fatigue suit in which it was clad, while slender and full of grace, *was well built and not lacking in muscle. It lay as it had fallen, apon its side, and with one arm thrown out and one limb, the left, drawn up. Xot far from the outstretched right arm and hand lay the pistol, a sixshooter, which the brother at once recognized, with two of the six chambers empty, a fact which Mr. Doran had just discovered, and was now holding in reserve. The doctor, upon his discovery of the second wound, had at once Hung his own handkerchief over the prostrate head, and called for the carriage robe from his own phaeton, which, fortunately for the wind,and.

legs of the black pony, liaa stood ready at his office door, and Was now in waiting, the horse tethered to a tree at the edge of the wood not far away. .

This lap robe . Robert Brierly reverently drew away as he knelt beside the stiU form, and thus, for some moments remained, turning his gaze from; right to loft, froh) the great tree which grew close at the motionless feet, and between the group and the water’s edge, its, branches spreading out above them and forming a canopy over the body to a dead slump some distance away, where a small target leaned, its rings of white and black and red showing how often a steady hand had sent the ball, close and closer, until the bull's eye was pierced at last.

No word was uttered as he knelt there, and before he arose he placed a hand upon the dead man's shoulder with an impulsive caressing motion, and bonding down, kissed the cold temple just above the crimson death mark. Then, slowly, reverently, he drew the covering once ixiori over the body and arose. "That was a vow," he said to tte doctor, who stood close beside him, "Where is—ah!” He turned toward the group of men who, when he knelt, had withdrawn to a respectable distance.

"Which of you suggested that he had fallen—tripped?” Doran came forward and silently pointed .to the foot of the tree, whore, trailing across the grass, and’ past the dead man’s feet, was a tendril of wild ivy entangled and broken., "Oh!” exclaimed Brierly. "Yop saw that, too?” "It was the first thing I did see,” said the other, coming to his side, "when I looked about me. It’s a very clear- case, Mr. Brierly, Target - shooting has been quite a pastime hero lately. And seel There couldn’t be a better place to stand and shoot at that target, than right against that tree, braced against it. It’s the right distance and all. He must have stood there, and when ho hit the bull’s eye, he made a quick forward step, caught his foot in that vine and tripped. A man will naturally throw out his arm in falling so, especially the right one, and in doing that., somehow, as he lunged forward, it, happened.”

"Yes,” murmured Brierly, "it is a very simple theory. It-—it might have happened so.” "There wasn’t any other way ,it could happen,".muttered one of Doran's companions. Ahd at that moment the wheels of an approaching vehicle were heard, and all turned to look toward the long' black hearse, digested of its plumes, and with two or three thick blankets upon its velvet floor.

It was the doctor who superintended the lifting of the body, keeping the head covered, and when the hearse drove slowly away with its, pathetic burden, ho turned to Doran.. "I’ll drive Mr. Elderly back to town, Doran"’ ho said, "if you don’t! mind taking his wheel in charge;”' and scarcely waiting for Doran’s' willing assent, he took Diehard Brierly's arm and led him toward his phaeton. , 1 The young man had picked up his brother's hat, as they lifted the body from the ground, and he now carried it in his hand, laying it gently, upon his knees ns he took his seat. When the doctor had taken his place and picked up the reins he leaned out and looked about him. Two or three horsemen were riding into the wood toward them, and a carriage had halted at the side of the road, while a group of school boys, headed by Johnny, the beU, ringer, wore hurrying down the slope toward the water’s edge. "They’re beginning to gather,” the physician said grimly. “Well, ’ it’s human nature, and your brother had a host of friends, Mr. Brierly,” Robert Brierly set his Ups and averted his face for a moment.

“Doran,” called the doctor. “Come here, will you.” Doran, who had begun to push the shining wheel up the slope, placed it carefully against a tree and came toward them. The doctor meanwhile turning to Bricrly. “Mr. Bricrly, you are a stranger here. Will you let me arrange for

you?” The other nodded, and then said huskily: “But it hurts to take him to an undertaker’s!” "He shall not be taken there.” and the doctor turned to Doran now standing at the wheel. “Mr. Doran, will you take my keys and ride ahead as fast as possible? Toll the undertaker, as you pass, to drive to my house. Then go on and open it. Wo will put the body in tho private office. Do not remonstrate, Mr. Brierly. It is only what I would wish another to do for me, and mine in a like affliction.” And this was tho rule by which this man lived his life, and because of which death had no terrors.

“I am a bachelor, . you must know,” the doctor said, as they drove slowly in the wake of the hearse. “And I have made my Ijome and established my office in a cosy cottage near the village proper, It will save you tho ordeal of strange eyes, and many questions, perhaps, if you will be my guest, for a day or two, at least.” Robert Briefly turned and looked this friend in need full in the face for a moment; then he lifted his hand to brush a sudden moisture from hia eye.

“I accept all your kindness." ho said huskily, "for I see that you are as sincere as you are kind.” When the body of Charles Brierly had been carried in, and placed as it must remain until the inquest was at an end, and when the crowd of sorrowing, anxious and curious people had dispersed, the doctor, who was masterful at need, making Doran his lieutenant, arranged for the securing of a jury; and after giving some quiet instructions, sent him away, saying; "Tell the people it is not yet determined how or when we shall hold the inquiry. Miss Grant, who must be a witness, will hardly be able to appear at once, I fear,” for, after looking at his guest's bodily comfort, the doctor bad left him to be alone with his grief for a little while, and had paid a flying visit to Hilda Grant, who lived nearly three blocks away. (To be continued.)