"I am Hilda Grant," she said, brokenly.
"My brother's friend! My sister that is to be!"
"No, no; not now. Something has happened. You should have gone with those men—with the doctor. They are going to bring him back."
"Miss Grant, sister!" His hands had closed firmly upon her wrists, and his voice was firm. "You must tell me the worst, quick. Don't seek to spare me; think of him! What is it?"
"He—he went from home early, with his pistol, they say, to shoot at a target. He is dead!"
"Dead! Charley dead! Quick! Where is he? I must see, I must. Oh! there must be some horrible mistake."
He sprang toward the door, but she was before him.
"Go this way. Here is his wheel. Take it. Go south—the lake shore—the Indian Mound."
A moment later a young man with pallid face, set mouth and tragic eyes was flying toward the Indian Mound upon a swift wheel, and in the school-room, prone upon the floor, a girl lay in a death-like swoon.