Suddenly, as they sat waiting, a
sharp, ringing sound fell on their ears, and grasping Guy's knee, the
doctor said, "I told you so; Madeline Clyde is dead."
It was the village bell, and its twice three strokes betokened that it
tolled for somebody youthful, somebody young, like Maddy Clyde. Jessie
wept silently, but there were no tears in the eyes of the young men,
as with beating hearts they sat listening to the slow, solemn sounds
which came echoing up the hill. There was a pause; the sexton's
dirgelike task was done, and now it only remained for him to strike
the age, and tell how many years the departed one had numbered.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten;" Jessie
counted it aloud, while every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon the
hearts of the young men, who a few weeks ago, knew not that such as
Maddy Clyde had ever had existence.
How long it seemed before another stroke, and Guy was beginning to
hope they'd heard the last, when again the dull, muffled sound came
floating on the air, and Dr. Holbrook's black, bearded lip half
quivered as he now counted aloud, "one, two, three, four, five."
That was all; there it stopped; and vain were all their listenings to
catch another note.
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