“Yes,” answered May, with a shudder. “Oh! her face is so awful, awful, Mr. Temple! I think I know who it is; a poor girl I knew by sight. What shall we do?”
“We must see at once if help can be given. Are you afraid to show me where she is?”
“No,” said May, in a low tone, and again she shuddered.
“You need not go all the way, you know,” said John Temple, kindly and gently. “Come, lean on me; you are trembling so that you can scarcely stand.”
He drew her hand through his arm and spoke soothingly to her, and May felt thankful that he was there. His presence seemed to give her courage, and presently she was able to show him where the poor girl’s body was hanging from the tree. John Temple left her for a few minutes and went on. Then he, too, saw the terrible sight that had filled May’s heart with horror. He went up and touched one of the poor girl’s hands; he felt for the stilled pulse. But he knew too well it was useless. The ghastly face told its own tale. The woman was dead; had probably been murdered, and the miserable affair must, of course, at once be investigated.
He returned, therefore, to May and asked her if she were afraid to go home as quickly as possible and give the alarm.
“I do not like leaving the poor woman’s body quite alone,” he said, “but if you are afraid—”
“Oh, no,” answered May; “I will run home. Father will most likely be about the place, and he will come at once. I will go now.”
She hurried away, while John Temple kept his dreary watch. Presently she reached the homestead, and met her father almost at the gate. Almost breathless and panting she told the dreadful news, and Mr. Churchill listened, surprised and shocked.
“But are you sure it is Wray’s daughter, my dear?” he said.