why I was not at the school. The chill afternoon
was waning, and twilight was drawing
on apace, when, as we were sitting together
in the parlour, Neville rose up suddenly.

"Caleb," he said, in a gentle voice, fumbling
about his waistcoat, "I have left my watch
upstairs on the dressing-table. Will you be
kind enough to fetch it me ?"

I went, in a moment, without thinking. I
found the watch as he had stated, and
returned with it in my hand; but Neville
was no longer in the parlour. I sought him
through the house and through the garden,
calling his name; but he was not to be
found. The thought then flashed across me
that he had sent me for his watch that he
might rid himself of my company, and get away
unobserved. Seizing my hat, I sallied forth;
but I had not got a hundred yards before I
discovered how futile any attempt at
pursuit would be. Darkness was closing in fast;
Neville had been gone a quarter of an hour,
and he might have gone in any one of a
dozen different directions. And what if I
found him ?  It was evident that he did not
want my company just then, and to anger
him in such a mood would be unwise.
Philip would be here in the morning, and
then something decisive might be done.
Reasoning thus, I returned home.

The evening crept on. We were all
assembled, as usual, in the sitting-room.
Now and then my father looked at his
watch. At last he said:

"Philip will hardly come to-night. It is
past coach-time, now."

I did not mention to him how Neville had
left me, not seeing that it would do any good
to disturb his equanimity. My mother sat
knitting, and humming an old ballad-tune to
herself. Helen was writing to her betrothed.
At once there came the sound of hurrying
feet along the passage; the door was thrown
open, and Olive Graile burst into the room,
pale, horror-struck, with wide-staring eyes.

"O Mr. Redfern!" she shrieked, wringing
her hands wildly. "Philip! He lies dead!
murdered in the meadows!"

She gasped for breath, stared wildly round,
and fell insensible to the floor.

Leaving Helen and my mother to attend
to her, my father and I rushed out of the
house at once and ran, as for our lives,
towards the fields by the riverside. There was
a young moon shining dimly over head, and
in the vague light, houses and trees, fields
and river, all looked ghastly as we sped
along; but far more ghastly than all, the
dead Philip, when we found him, lying
directly in our path, close to a thick clump of
willows. I, being somewhat in advance, was
the first to discover him; and when my
father saw me stoop down by the dark
object, his limbs trembled like a child's, and
the foundations of life were shaken within
him. The body was rigid already; and we
saw at a glance, but would not acknowledge,
that it was beyond all earthly aid.

There was no wound perceptible as he lay
there on the grass. The fatal bullet had
pierced through the coat and vest to his heart.
He lay with one arm across his chest, and
the other outstretched with clenched fingers.
A dark frown had settled on his pale
features, as though, even in death, he defied his
murderer.

Looking round to see if there were any
traces of the murderer, my father saw
something glittering in the moonlight. He took
it up. It was a pistol. He approached me
without a word, and held the weapon
close to my face. I knew it—we both knew
it—Neville's pistol. There was his name
engraven on a small silver plate let into the
stock, and I had seen it in his hands the
previous morning. I shall never forget the
terrible expression of anguish that passed
like a ripple over my father's face when he
saw that I recognised it.

"Caleb," he said, looking me steadily in
the face, and speaking in a low voice that
thrilled through me; "no one must know
of this. It must be a secret between you
and me. It is enough that I have this
night lost one dear to me as my own
son. Repentance—not sacrifice—is now
needed."

So speaking, he placed the pistol in the
breast-pocket of his coat, and carefully
buttoned it up. We then took up our dear dead,
tenderly and reverentially, having first laid
a handkerchief over the still features, and
so carried him home between us. The first
person we met we sent off to Doctor
Graile's, requesting his immediate presence.
We saw my mother standing at the door, as
we advanced up the garden.

She had not the courage to come any
further, and yet could not remain in the house.
She read the dread news in our faces, and
waited for no more.

"Dead! dead!" she cried aloud. "O my
poor heart; what shall I do!—what shall I do!"

We carried the body up-stairs, and laid it
on the best bed. It would have added to my
mother's misery if we had laid it on any
other. Doctor Graile arrived at this moment,
and with him came two policemen; for the
news had spread by this time from end to
end of the little town.

"The bullet has gone direct to his heart,"
said the doctor, after a brief examination.
"Death must have been instantaneous."

"If you please, sir," said one of the officers,
"we should like to have a few words with
the young lady who, we understand, was with
him when the affair took place. She might be
able to throw some light on it, and give us a
clue to the murderer."

So we went down stairs, all except my
father.

"I dare not go, Caleb," he whispered;