She had tottered upstairs holding on to the hand-rail and had thrown herself on a bed in the room leading out of the dressing-room, where she lay in her mud-stained dress, the silken petticoat torn and bedraggled in her leap from the window.

She was weeping bitterly, her old black mammy sitting beside her trying to comfort her as best she could.
With the departure of the last guest--Mr.Seymour among them; the colonel doing the honors; standing bare-headed on the porch, his face all smiles as he bade them good-by--the head of the house of Rutter turned quickly on his heel, passed down the corridor, made his way along the long narrow hall, and entered his office, where the wounded man lay.
Harry, the negro woman, and Dr.Teackle alone were with him.
"Is there any change ?" he asked in a perfectly even voice.

Every vestige of the set smile of the host had left his face.

Harry he did not even notice.
"Not much--he is still alive," replied the doctor.
"Have you found the ball ?" "No--I have not looked for it--I will presently." The colonel moved out a chair and sat down beside the dying man, his eyes fixed on the lifeless face.

Some wave of feeling must have swept through him, for after a half-stifled sigh, he said in a low voice, as if to himself: "This will be a fine story to tell his father, won't it ?--and here too--under my roof.