tion she leaned back against the tree—a willow tree—and put her hand behind her to pluck the bracken. She had to stretch out some distance to do this. Suddenly she withdrew her hand with a half-stifled exclamation.
"What's the matter?" inquired the younger gentleman.
He wore quite an appearance of concern, being still in that stage in which a tight shoe upon the lady's foot would give him corns. Most transitory stage—too sweet to last!
"I—I thought I touched something."
She looked startled. She put her hand behind her rather more gingerly than she had done before. Instantly she sprang to her feet in a state of most unmistakable dismay.
"Ernest, there is someone there! I touched his hand."
She stood, trembling all over, a pretty picture of distress—in tan shoes and a white piqué gown.
"What do you mean?" cried Ernest
"You are dreaming," murmured I.
We rose together. But he was the quicker. Going behind the willow tree, he parted the bracken with his hands.
"There is, by George! What are you doing there, sir? Are you drunk? Why" He stooped down. "Good God! He's dead!"
Suddenly, with a loud cry, he fell upon his knees.
"It's Coursault!" …
It was. Lying dead among the bracken—"Where the Willows cast their Shade."
We thought at first that he had been the victim of
