all with open mouth.  No listener in the gardens of Stamboul could have found more rapture in a tale heard amidst the perfume of roses and the voices of birds and tinkling of fountains than Elbridge in following Abel’s narrative, as they sat there in the aromatic ammoniacal atmosphere of the stable, the grinding of the horses’ jaws keeping evenly on through it all, with now and then the interruption of a stamping hoof, and at intervals a ringing crow from the barn-yard.

Elbridge stopped a minute to think, after Abel had finished.

“Who’s took care o’ them things that was on the hoss?” he said, gravely.

“Waal, Langden, he seemed to kin ‘o’ think I’d ought to have ’em,—­’n’ the Squire; he did n’ seem to have no ’bjection; ‘n’ so,—­waal, I calc’late I sh’ll jes’ holt on to ’em myself; they a’n’t good f ’r much, but they’re cur’ous t’ keep t’ look at.”

Mr. Veneer’s man did not appear much gratified by this arrangement, especially as he had a shrewd suspicion that some of the ornaments of the bridle were of precious metal, having made occasional examinations of them with the edge of a file.  But he did not see exactly what to do about it, except to get them from Abel in the way of bargain.

“Waal, no,—­they a’n’t good for much ‘xcep’ to look at.  ‘F y’ ever rid on that seddle once, y’ would n’ try it ag’in, very spry,—­not ‘f y’ c’d haalp y’rsaalf.

“I tried it,—­darned ‘f I sot daown f’r th’ nex’ week,—­eat all my victuals stan’in’.  I sh’d like t’ hev them things wal enough to heng up ’n the stable; ‘f y’ want t’ trade some day, fetch ’em along daown.”

Abel rather expected that Elbridge would have laid claim to the saddle and bridle on the strength of some promise or other presumptive title, and thought himself lucky to get off with only offering to think abaout tradin’.

When Elbridge returned to the house, he found the family in a state of great excitement.  Mr. Venner had told Old Sophy, and she had informed the other servants.  Everybody knew what had happened, excepting Elsie.  Her father had charged them all to say nothing about it to her; he would tell her, when she came down.

He heard her step at last,—­alight, gliding step,—­so light that her coming was often unheard, except by those who perceived the faint rustle that went with it.  She was paler than common this morning, as she came into her father’s study.

After a few words of salutation, he said quietly, “Elsie, my dear, your cousin Richard has left us.”

She grew still paler, as she asked,

“Is he dead?”

Dudley Venner started to see the expression with which Elsie put this question.

“He is living,—­but dead to us from this day forward,” said her father.

He proceeded to tell her, in a general way, the story he had just heard from Abel.  There could be no doubting it;—­he remembered him as the Doctor’s man; and as Abel had seen all with his own eyes, as Dick’s chamber, when unlocked with a spare key, was found empty, and his bed had not been slept in, he accepted the whole account as true.