CHAPTER VI
Up the path came Tom Barnard, wheeling the somewhat old-fashioned bicycle, which he had bought second hand. From behind the saddle dangled two or three little brown paper parcels which he had brought back from London (whither he journeyed very seldom), to give pleasure to Rose and Poppet.
At sight of the familiar and well-loved figure, Mrs. Barnard's self-control suddenly snapped, and she broke into hysterical crying as she ran down the path, holding out both hands like a child, to the one she best loved and trusted.
"Why, little woman!" exclaimed the farmer, alarmed at such an unaccustomed display of emotion. "Nothing wrong with the baby?"
"No—no," and then the story came tumbling from her lips anyhow, in strange confusion, choked with sobs. How Poppet had screamed, and the Colonel was there, covered with blood—no, not covered, but there was a lot. And he could hardly speak, so she dared not ask questions; but he said her ladyship was dead, and he wanted Tom; and Jimmy Russell had gone on her (Rose's) bicycle for the doctor and the police—yes, the police; she wasn't mistaken. And
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