Gilbert, hardly less distressed than herself, guessed the truth in a moment. His father, flew into a frenzy of passion, and threatened to inflict all sorts of punishment on the dastardly rascals who had killed his faithful brave old dog.
"A man would never have done it," muttered Gilbert. "This is the work of a jealous woman."
And he felt the deepest abhorrence for the author of the outrage.
CHAPTER IV.
DEATH IN ANOTHER SHAPE.
In the afternoon Mrs. Martin walked up to the farm to see Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy, and to call upon their new friends. Dorothy had not been to the parsonage for three weeks, and her place at church and in the Sunday school had been vacant. Mr. Martin and his wife suspected that all was not right with Dorothy; that either her mother was worse, or that she was so fatigued with overwork that she was unable to attend to these important duties; both were convinced that Dorothy would never desert her post unless compelled to do so. Mrs. Martin had been confined to the house by the dangerous illness of little Johnnie, whom the doctor had only pronounced that day out of danger. Anxious as she was to learn in what manner Dorothy had borne the meeting with her lover, and whether his wife and mother were agreeable people, she had not been able to leave the sick-bed of her child to satisfy her natural curiosity. When Dorothy opened the door, she was startled by her pale face and altered appearance.
"My dear girl, are you ill?"
"Not ill—only heartsick, weary of the world and its ways. If it were not for the love of a few dear friends, I could leave it to-morrow without the least regret."