So we walked over the grass of the meadows under a flood of
moonlight, and soon came to the house, which was low and built round
a quadrangle big enough to get plenty of sunshine in it. Walter
Allen, Dick's friend, was leaning against the jamb of the doorway
waiting for us, and took us into the hall without overplus of words.
There were not many people in it, as some of the dwellers there were
away at the haymaking in the neighbourhood, and some, as Walter told
us, were wandering about the meadow enjoying the beautiful moonlit
night. Dick's friend looked to be a man of about forty; tall, black-
haired, very kind-looking and thoughtful; but rather to my surprise
there was a shade of melancholy on his face, and he seemed a little
abstracted and inattentive to our chat, in spite of obvious efforts
to listen.

Dick looked on him from time to time, and seemed troubled; and at
last he said: "I say, old fellow, if there is anything the matter
which we didn't know of when you wrote to me, don't you think you had
better tell us about it at once? Or else we shall think we have come
here at an unlucky time, and are not quite wanted."

Walter turned red, and seemed to have some difficulty in restraining
his tears, but said at last: "Of course everybody here is very glad
to see you, Dick, and your friends; but it is true that we are not at
our best, in spite of the fine weather and the glorious hay-crop. We
have had a death here."

Said Dick: "Well, you should get over that, neighbour: such things
must be."

"Yes," Walter said, "but this was a death by violence, and it seems