They were slowly walking on farther from the house as they talked, and finally when Dick said, “why, Ed, you couldn’t hit that big tree yonder, I dare you to try it,” at the same time offering him the pistol, the little fellow’s sense of duty suddenly gave way, and snatching the weapon from Dick’s hand, he fired, not allowing himself time, in his haste and passion, to take proper aim.

In their excitement and pre-occupation, none of the boys had noticed Mr. Travilla riding into the avenue a moment before, closely followed by his body servant Ben.  Almost simultaneously with the report of the pistol the former tumbled from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground.

With a cry, “O, Mass Edard’s killed!” Ben sprang from his horse and bent over the prostrate form, wringing his hands in fright and grief.  He was his master’s foster-brother and devotedly attached to him.

The fall, the cry, the snorting and running of the frightened horses, instantly told the boys what had happened, and Eddie threw himself on the ground screaming in an agony of grief and remorse, “O, I’ve killed my father, my dear, dear father!  O, papa, papa! what shall I do? what shall I do?”

Mr. Leland coming in search of his children, the men passing the gate returning from their work, all heard and rushed to the spot.  The blacks crowded about the scene of the accident, sobbing like children at the sight of their loved master and friend lying there apparently lifeless.

Mr. Leland, his features working with emotion, at once assumed the direction of affairs.

“Catch the horses,” he said, “and you, Ben, mount the fleetest and fly for the doctor.  And you,” turning to another, “take the other and hurry to the Oaks for Mr. Dinsmore.  Now the rest of you help me to carry your master to the house.  I will lift his head, there gently, gently, my good fellows, I think he still breathes.  But Mrs. Travilla!” he added, looking toward the dwelling, “all seems quiet there; they have not heard, I think, and she should be warned.  I wish—­”

“I will go, I will tell mamma,” interrupted a quivering child voice at his side.

Little Elsie had pushed her way through the crowd and dropping on her knees on the grass was raining kisses and tears upon the pale, unconscious face.

“You? poor child!” Mr. Leland began in piteous tones; but she had already sprung to her feet and was flying toward the house with the fleetness of the wind.

One moment she paused in the spacious entrance hall, to recover her breath, calm her features, and remove the traces of her tears.  “Mamma, mamma,” she was saying to herself, “O Lord Jesus give me the right words to speak to her.”

She hardly knew to which apartment to direct her steps, but “Hark! there was the sound of the piano and mamma’s sweet voice singing a song papa had brought home only the other day, and that he liked.  Ah would she ever sing again now that he—­”