The suspicion grew and grew:--it _was_ a boy lying
in the water;--it was Vernon;--he was motionless;--he must have fallen
there from the cliff.
Eric could endure the suspense no longer. The instant that the boat
grated on the shingle, he sprang into the water, and rushed to the spot
where his brother's body lay. With a burst of passionate affection, he
flung himself on his knees beside it, and took the cold hand in his
own--the little rigid hand in which the green blades of grass, and fern,
and heath, so tightly clutched, were unconscious of the tale they told.
"Oh Verny, Verny, darling Verny, speak to me!" he cried in anguish, as
he tenderly lifted up the body, and marked how little blood had flowed.
But the child's head fell back heavily, and his arms hung motionless
beside him, and with a shriek, Eric suddenly caught the look of dead
fixity in his blue open eyes.
The others had come up. "O God, save my brother, save him, save him from
death," cried Eric, "I cannot live without him. Oh God! Oh God! Look!
look!" he continued, "he has fallen from the cliff with his head on this
cursed stone," pointing to the block of quartz, still red with
blood-stained hair; "but we must get a doctor.
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