address to the school before the children departed, but eventually she decided to keep silence, and the dismissal was got over as quickly as possible. The seven witnesses remained, solemnly seated at their desks, all anxious-looking.
“Lucy Wood,” Miss Rutherford began, when the door was closed and quiet, “you are the eldest. Please tell me all you can of this sad affair.”
There was one of the seven faces far more discomposed than the rest, a sweet and spiritual little countenance; it was tear-stained, red-eyed; the eager look, the trembling lips spoke some intimate cause of sympathy. Before the girl addressed had time to begin her answer, this other, one would have said in spite of herself, intervened with an almost agonised question.
“Oh, Miss Rutherford, is Harriet really dead?”
“Hush, hush!” said the lady, with a shocked look. “No, my dear, she is only badly hurt.”
“And she really won’t die?” pleaded the child, with an instant brightening of look.
