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"No," he said after a moment, "shooting parties are over. There is
nothing doing on the moors now. They were potting bunnies."
"Was he shooting?" asked the girl.
"No," replied the owner of the letter, "and that seems such hard
luck. He had given up shooting altogether a year or two ago. He
never really enjoyed it, because he so loved the beauty of life and
hated death in every form. He has a lovely place in the North, and
was up there painting. He happened to pass within sight of some
fellows rabbit-shooting, and saw what he considered cruelty to a
wounded rabbit. He vaulted over a gate to expostulate and to save
the little creature from further suffering. Then it happened. One of
the lads, apparently startled, let off his gun. The charge struck a
tree a few yards off, and the shot glanced. It did not strike him
full. The face is only slightly peppered and the brain quite
uninjured. But shots pierced the retina of each eye, and the sight
is hopelessly gone."
"Awful hard luck," said the young man.


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