“What’s that? Who’s killed?” exclaimed Aunt Amelia, springing to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. “Don’t attempt to keep it from me. I will know who is killed! Oh, dear! I feel—I feel as if I was going to faint. Fleming, a glass of water. Oh, Edwin, I know something dreadful is going to happen!” she wound up with a groan and a wail.
Fleming stolidly got her a glass of water; no one else took any notice of her.
Olivia stood for a moment pale and thoughtful; then she moved to the door.
“I must go to her, papa,” she said. “Where is she, Fleming?”
“At the lodge, miss,” he replied, gravely. “The pony fell down or was stopped not far from there—I have not got the rights of it quite, miss—and they carried Bessie home.”
Olivia opened the door, and, disregarding her aunt’s shriek of “Where are you going, Olivia?” ran into the hall and caught up a shawl. The squire, without a word, put on his hat, and they went out together.
“Poor Bessie!” murmured Olivia, as they ran down the drive. “I warned her against the pony this afternoon.”
They saw lights moving behind the windows of the lodge, and in response to the squire’s knock a boy opened the door.
“I will wait here; send for me if you want me,” said the squire.
Olivia passed in, and ran noiselessly up the stairs, and pushed open the half-closed door of Bessie’s room.