“He was shot last night by mistake on the picket-line.  The sentry is all broken up over it, poor fellow, and the whole camp regrets it more than I can tell.  You see, after yesterday’s performance we almost claimed the dog as one of us.  Colonel Wayne has made me the bearer of his deepest regrets.  He especially deplores the occurrence on account of the dog’s little mistress, knowing what a great grief it will be to her.  He wishes, if you think it will be any consolation to her, to give Hero a military funeral, and bury him with the honours due a brave soldier.”

“I am sure that Lloyd will want that,” said Mrs, Walton.  “She will appreciate it deeply, when she understands what a mark of respect to Hero such an attention would be.  Tell Colonel Wayne, please, that I gladly accept the offer in her behalf, and will send Ranald over later, to arrange for it.”

The orderly rode away, and Mrs. Walton turned to her sister, exclaiming, “Poor little Lloyd!  I confess I am not brave enough to face her grief when she first hears the news.  You will have to tell her, Allison.  You know her so much better than I. We might as well hurry the preparations for leaving.  No one will care to stay a moment longer, now this has happened.  It will cast a gloom over the entire party.”

“Maybe it would be better not to tell her until after she gets home,” suggested Miss Allison.  She had soothed the childish griefs of nearly every child in the Valley, at some time or another, but she felt that this was the most serious one that had fallen to her lot to comfort.

“I’m sure it would be impossible to get Lloyd away from here without Hero, unless she knew,” was the answer.  “I heard her tell Kitty this morning that nobody could make her go without him.  She said if he wasn’t back by the time we were ready to start, we could go on without her, and she would hunt for him if it took all fall.”

While they were still discussing it the boys came running back to camp much excited.  They had met the orderly.

“Oh, the poor dog!” mourned Keith.  “What a shame for the poor old fellow to be shot down that way.  It seems almost as bad as if it had been one of us boys that was killed.”

Ranald and Rob joined in with praise of his many lovable traits, talking of his death as if it were a lifelong friend they had lost; but Malcolm turned away with an anxious glance to the woods, where he could hear the laughing voices of the girls.

“Poor little Princess Winsome,” he thought.  “It will nearly break her heart,” and he wished with all the earnestness of the real Sir Feal, that by some knightly service, no matter how hard, he could save his little friend from this sorrow.

The girls came strolling up, presently, so occupied with their spoils that no one noticed the boy’s serious faces but Lloyd.  The moment she caught Malcolm’s sympathetic glance she was sure something had happened to Hero.