Aymer made no answer. He set his white teeth firmly, took a steady stand on the turf at either side of the tiny stream, and stooped over the stone. Never could he have lifted it at any ordinary moment, though he was as strong a young fellow as any of his years; but now excitement and sorrow made him twice as strong as usual, and with a shout he raised the stone, and let it splash into the water.
Clarice moved, uttered a terrible scream, and then lay silent.
Lizzie was down beside her now. "Oh, Aymer, I do think she is dead; I do, indeed. Oh, poor mother!"
"No!" shouted Aymer, almost fiercely. "Don't say that! It is her knee that is hurt, and she is cold from lying in the water. It's well her head was on the bank."
He was examining the child's knee as he spoke, and his face was pale and his hands trembling, both from the strength of his feelings and the tremendous exertion he had just made.
"The stone lay here; she's not injured anywhere else. The ground is soft, or her leg would be ground to powder. Is it broken, Lizzie?"
"I don't know, it looks terrible. What are we to do now? How can we ever get her home?"
Aymer raised himself; stood upright, and turned to calculate the height of the bank. On the edge above him knelt poor little Guy, his dark blue eyes fixed on Clarice in utter misery.
"Clarice is not killed, Guy. My poor little chap, don't look so miserable!"
"Aymer, if she is killed, I hope the police will take and hang me! For it was because I stood on the stone. She jumped down, and then stood calling me to jump too; but it looked so steep, and I felt the stone going and went back—and then it fell, and Clarice screamed, and—oh, Nelly, Nelly!"