“You didn’t mean to do it, Eddie,” he was saying, as Elsie came within hearing.

“No, no,” burst out the half distracted child, “I wouldn’t hurt my dear papa one bit for all the world! but it was ’cause I disobeyed him.  He told me never to touch firearms when he wasn’t by to help me do it right.  Oh, oh, oh, I didn’t think I’d ever be such a wicked boy!  I’ve killed my father, oh! oh!”

“No, Eddie, no, you haven’t; papa opened his eyes and spoke to mamma,” said his sister hurrying to his side.

“Did he?  O Elsie, is he alive?  Isn’t he hurt much?” asked the child, ceasing his cries for the moment, and lifting his tear-swollen face to hers.

“I don’t know, Eddie dear, but I hope not,” she said, low and tremulously, the tears rolling fast down her own cheeks, while she took out her handkerchief and gently wiped them away from his.

He dropped his head again, with a bitter, wailing cry.  “O, I’m afraid he is, and I shooted him!  I shooted him!”

Fortunately Dr. Burton’s residence was not far distant, and Ben urging Beppo to his utmost speed and finding the doctor at home, had him at Mr. Travilla’s bedside in a wonderfully short space of time.

The doctor found the injury not nearly so great as he had feared:  the ball had struck the side of the head and glanced off, making a mere scalp-wound, which, though causing insensibility for a time, would have no very serious or lasting consequences; the blood had been already sponged away, and the wound closed with sticking plaster.

But the fall had jarred the whole system and caused some bruises; so that altogether the patient was likely to have to keep his bed for some days, and the doctor said must be kept quiet and as free from excitement as possible.

Elsie, leaving Aunt Chloe at the bedside, followed the physician from the room.

“You need give yourself no anxiety, my dear Mrs. Travilla,” he said cheerily, taking her hand in his for a moment, in his kind fatherly way—­for he was an old man now, and had known her from her early childhood—­“the injuries are not at all serious, and there is no reason why your husband should not be about again in a week or so.  But how did it happen?  What hand fired the shot?”

“Indeed I do not know, have not asked,” she answered, with an emotion of surprise at herself for the omission.  “It seems strange I should not, but I was so taken up with grief and fear for him, and anxiety to relieve his suffering that I had room for no other thought.  Can you tell us, sir?” turning to Mr. Leland, who was standing near.

“I—­did not see the shot,” he replied with some hesitation.

“But you know; tell me, I beg of you.”

“It was an accident, madam, entirely an accident:  there can be no question about that.”

“But tell me all you know,” she entreated, growing very pale.  “I see you fear to wound me, but it were far better I should know the whole truth.”