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"Pooh! what nonsense!" she said. She pushed the door wide open.
Was it another mocking, maddening vision that she saw? She rubbed her
eyes in wild affright, and then raised her hands aloft with a
piercing shriek.
There, before her, lay the dead body of her father. In the centre of his
ghastly forehead was a small wound, from which the blood had trickled
over the temples, bedabbling his thin gray hairs, and forming a small
red pool by his side. Near him, on the floor, was a club with an iron
tip, which had done the dreadful deed. She recognized it at once as a
part of the machine.
The monstrous vision of the night was true! Her father was dead! Mr.
Wilkeson was his murderer! She was an orphan!
These agonizing thoughts flashed through her brain in the single
instant. She felt her head turning, and her limbs failing under her. She
had only strength to shriek, "Murder! murder! Help! help!" and then she
fell headlong and senseless upon her father's dead body.

BOOK SEVENTH.
JOURNEYINGS AGAINST FATE.

CHAPTER I.
PEA-SHOOTING AS A SCIENCE.


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