Jean did not return quickly. The three went over the first dyke, Walters leading; and then they followed Jean's small footprints. A minute later, Jean's voice rang out from the distance, clear and thrilling, with a now sound in it.
"She's found something," Walters exclaimed.
"Father! Come!" The distant appeal cut like a blade through the air, yet Jean did not scream.
"Will you wait here with Walters? I must take the lantern. Don't stir till I come back."
"O no—I must go too."
To pause for discussion was impossible. The second dyke had to be reached and crossed, and the crossing, it could not be denied, was "awful bad." Mr. Trevelyan lifted Evelyn sheer over the stile, and all but carried her through the half knee-deep slush beyond—slush just enough frozen to be slippery, not enough to keep them from sinking into it. A false step might have plunged both into the dyke; but the other side was reached, and Jean came to meet them.
Mr. Trevelyan knew in a moment—knew as his eyes fell upon Jean—what had happened. He had never before seen her thus. Every trace of colour had left her face, and the eyes looked out fixedly from two surrounding hollows which had suddenly sprung into existence. Yet Jean was herself, which means that she was not thinking of herself.
"Not Evelyn!" broke from her blanched lips, and she clutched Evelyn's hands, as in a vice, with ice-cold fingers. "Father—you and Walters—over there—not Evelyn! O not Evelyn!"
"Why not?" Evelyn was perfectly composed now, not nearly so pale as Jean.
"I can't tell you! Father, don't let her! Don't let her!" cried Jean, in smothered agony. "Keep her away! Don't let her go!"