Mark was forced to smile at the idea of old Whitey committing suicide. The deacon observed his smile, and it provoked him.

"Do you mean to say, Mark Manning, that you think the critter shot herself in the face?" he demanded, sharply.

"No, Deacon Miller, I have no such idea."

"That's the same as admittin' that you shot her," said the deacon, triumphantly.

"No, it isn't, deacon. I didn't shoot her, but I have no doubt some one else did."

"It may have been the cat," remarked the deacon, with a return to sarcasm.

"It was probably a two-legged cat," said Mark.

"Jest my idee!" remarked the deacon, quickly, "An' that brings it home to you. You was out with a gun, an' I caught you standin' beside the cow."

"As to catching me," returned Mark, "there was no catching about it. I was crossing the pasture, and was attracted by the poor animal's moans. That is the way I happened to be near when you came up."

"That all sounds very smooth," said the deacon, impatiently, "but if you didn't shoot the cow, who did?"

"I think that question can be answered, Deacon Miller; John Downie!"

To the deacon's surprise, John came into the room at this summons.

"Johnny," said Mark, "will you tell the deacon who shot his cow!"

"I don't like to tell," objected John; "it wasn't done on purpose."

"Did you do it?" queried the deacon, sharply.

"No, sir. I never fired a gun in my life."

"Who did it, then?"

"Must I tell, Mark?"

"Yes, Johnny; Deacon Miller has a right to know; even if it was not done on purpose, the one who did it ought to make good the loss."

"That's where you speak sense, Mark," said the deacon, approvingly.

"Then it was Jim Collins."

"James Collins—the squire's son!" repeated the deacon, astonished.

"Yes."

John proceeded to tell the story once more. The deacon, it is needless to say, listened very attentively.

"So the boys run away, did they?" he inquired, grimly.

"Yes, sir."

"And I s'pose you'd have run away, too, if you had done it, hey?"

"Perhaps I might," answered John, ingenuously. "I s'pose they were scared."

"I'll scare 'em," growled the deacon. "Squire Collins is able to make up the loss to me, and I mean he shall." Then, with a momentary suspicion, "This ain't a story you an' Mark have got up between you, to get him off, is it?"

"I will answer that, Deacon Miller," said Mark firmly. "If I had shot your cow, I wouldn't have run away, but I'd have gone right to you and told you about it, and I'd have paid you just as soon as I could."

"That's right, that's right," said the deacon, approvingly, beginning to regard Mark with more favor. "Well, I must go and see the squire. Here, you John Downie, come along with me."

"I've got to go home," said John.

"But I can't prove it without you."

"You can tell the squire that I saw it done, and am ready to swear to it, if he wants me to."

"Mebbe that'll do if I send for you, you'll come, hey?"

"Yes, sir."

The deacon did not feel disposed to postpone what he regarded as important business, and he left the cottage, taking the shortest direction to the squire's more imposing dwelling. We will precede him.

James Collins and his friend, as already described, ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, when they ascertained what damage had been done.

No one, so far as they knew, had seen them, and they hoped to escape, scot free.

Tom............