WYLDER'S HAjYD.
457
of the tax-cart driving down the_ mill-road, at a pace so
unusual, a vague augury of evil smote her. She was
standing in the porch of her tiny house, and old Tamar
was sitting knitting on the bench close by.
"Tamar, they are galloping down the road, I think —
what can it mean?" exclaimed the young lady, scared she
could not tell why; and old Tamar stood up, and shaded
her eyes with her shrunken hand.
Tom Wealdon pulled up at the little wicket. He was
pale. He had lost his hat, too, among the thickets. Al-
together he looked wild.
He put his hand to where his hat should have been in
token of salutation, and said he —'
"I beg pardon, Miss Lake, ma'am, but I'm sorry to
say your brother the Captain's badly hurt, and maybe you
could have a shakedown in the parlor ready for him by the
time I come back with the doctor, ma'am?"
Rachel, she did not know how, was close by the wheel
of the vehicle by this time.
"Is it Sir Harry Bracton? He's in the town, I know.
Is Stanley shot?"
"Not shot; only thrown, miss, into the dell; his mare
shied at a dead body that's there. You'd better stay
where you are, miss; but if you could send up some water,
I think he'd like it. Going for the doctor, ma'am; good-
bye, Miss Lake."
And away went Wealdon, wild, pale, and hatless, like
a man pursued by robbers.
"Oh! Tamar, he's killed — Stanley's killed —I'm sure
he's killed, and all's discovered " — and Rachel ran wildly
up the hill a few steps, but stopped and returned as swiftly.
"Thank God, miss," said old Tamar, lifting up her
trembling fingers and white eyes to Heaven. "Better
dead, miss, than living on in sin and sorrow, better dis-
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