swiftly toward her, pale faced, and too full of anxiety to be 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 the doctor, and—the coroner, too, I fear—at once!"
He put out his hand for the reins, but she anticipated the movement and struck the pony a sharp and sudden blow that sent him galloping townward at the top of his speed, the reins still in her two small, perfectly-gloved hands.
For a few moments no word was spoken; then, without turning her eyes from the road, she asked:
"What is it?"
"Death, I'm afraid!"
"What! Not suicide?"
"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?"
"Charles Brierly, our head teacher, and a good man."
Miss Grant was standing at one of the front windows
