“Dar doan’ ’pear to be nobody ’bout dis hyar depot,” remarked Uncle Ben reflectively; “but I reckon dar’s somebody comin’ to ’splain de mattah.  Wha’s de ‘casion ob dis mos’ onusual state ob t’ings?” he added, as a woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction.

“What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?” he queried, as she reached the side of the vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion.

“Why, Uncle Ben, dar—­dar’s been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an’ dey’s all broke up, and de folks roun’ here is all”—­

“Where? where?” exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment.

“Dunno, Miss,” was the reply; “but,” pointing up the road, “it’s out dat way, ‘bout a mile, I reckon.  Yo see, de kyars was a comin’ fas’ dis way, and ‘nudder ole injine whiskin’ ’long dat way, and dey bofe comes togedder wid a big crash, breakin’ de kyars, and de injines bofe of em, till dey’s good for nuffin’ but kin’lin’ wood; and de folks what’s ridin’ in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and body”—­

“Edward!” gasped Zoe.  “Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your might!  O Edward, my husband, my husband!” and she burst into hysterical weeping.

Ella threw her arms about her.  “Don’t, dear Zoe, oh, don’t cry so!  He may not be hurt.  He may not have been on that train at all.”

Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed along the road at a furious rate.

Zoe dropped her head on Ella’s shoulder, answering only with tears and sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still.

“We’s got dar, Miss Zoe,” said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of grief and sympathy.

She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group, scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying on the ground.

Ella and Ben saw it too.  She suddenly caught the reins from his hands:  he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion, “Hit’s Marse Ed’ard’s wife, gen’lemen.”

It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a corpse.

With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed her lips passionately to his.

There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone.

“I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe,” Arthur said in a low, moved tone.  “I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is only stunned.”