"How did it happen?" asked Dr. West.
Before any answer could be given, a man came tearing up at the top of his speed; several men, indeed, it may be said. The first was Roy, the bailiff. Upon Roy's leaving Verner's Pride, after the rebuke bestowed upon him by its heir, he had gone straight down to the George and Dragon, a roadside inn, situated on the outskirts of the village, on the road from Verner's Pride. Here he had remained, consorting with droppers-in from Deerham, and soothing his mortification with a pipe and sundry cans of ale. When the news was brought in that Rachel Frost was drowned in the Willow-pond, Roy, the landlord, and the company collectively, started off to see.
"Why, it is her!" uttered Roy, taking a hasty view of poor Rachel. "I said it wasn't possible. I saw her and talked to her up at the house but two or three hours ago. How did she get in?"
The same question always; from all alike: how did she get in? Dr. West rose.
"You can move her," he said.
"Is she dead, sir?"
"Yes."
Frederick Massingbird—who had been the one to hold the matches—caught the doctor's arm.
"Not dead!" he uttered. "Not dead beyond hope of restoration?"
"She will never be restored in this world," was the reply of Dr. West. "She is quite dead."