The ProjectGutenberg eBook,The Bondboy, by

George W. (GeorgeWashington) Ogden

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THE BONDBOY

By G. W. Ogden

Trail’s EndClaim Number One

The Land of Last ChanceThe Rustler of Wind RiverThe Duke of Chimney Butte

The Flockmaster of Poison Creek

CopyrightA. C. McClurg & Co.

1922Published October, 1922

Copyrighted in Great BritainPrinted in the United States of America

CONTENTSI. Delivered Into Bondage 1

II. A Dry-Salt Man 21III. The Spark in the Clod 47IV. A Stranger at the Gate 66V. The Secret of the

Clover 84VI. Blood 99

VII. Deliverance 114VIII. Will He Tell? 126

IX. The Sealed Envelope 152X. Let Him Hang 166

XI. Peter’s Son 171XII. The Sunbeam on the

Wall 188XIII. Until the Day Break 210

XIV. Deserted 228XV. The State vs. Newbolt 241

XVI. “She Cometh Not” HeSaid 249

XVII. The Blow of a Friend 259XVIII. A Name and a Message 276

XIX. The Shadow of a Dream 304XX. “The Penalty Is Death!” 311

XXI. Ollie Speaks 325XXII. A Summons of the Night 341

XXIII. Lest I Forget 359

The Bondboy

CHAPTER IDELIVERED INTO

BONDAGE

Sarah Newbolt enjoyed in her saturnine,brooding way the warmth of Aprilsunshine and the stirring greenery ofawakening life now beginning to soften thebrown austerity of the dead winter earth.Beside her kitchen wall the pink cones ofrhubarb were showing, and the fat buds ofthe lilacs, which clustered coppicelike inher dooryard, were ready to unlock andflare forth leaves. On the porch with itssouthern exposure she sat in her low,splint-bottomed rocker, leaning forward,her elbows on her knees.

The sun tickled her shoulders throughher linsey dress, and pictured her,grotesquely foreshortened, upon the nail-drawn, warped, and beaten floor. Herhands, nursing her cheeks, chin pivoted intheir palms, were large and toil-distorted,great-jointed like a man’s, and all thefeminine softness with which nature hadendowed her seemed to have beenovercome by the masculine cast of frameand face which the hardships of her lifehad developed.

She did not seem, crouched there likean old cat warming herself in the first keenfires of spring, conscious of anythingabout her; of the low house, with itsbattered eaves, the sprawling rail-fence infront of it, out of which the gate was gone,like a tooth; of the wild bramble of roses,

or the generations of honeysuckle whichhad grown, layer upon layer–the understratum all dead and brown–over thedecaying arbor which led up to thecracked front door. She did not seemconscious that time and poverty hadwasted the beauties of that place; thatshingles were gone from the outreachingeaves, torn away by March winds; thatstones had fallen from the chimney,squatting broad-shouldered at theweathered gable; that panes were missingfrom the windows, their places suppliedby boards and tacked-on cloth, or thatpillows crowded into them, making itseem a house that stopped its ears againstthe unfriendly things which passengersupon the highway might speak of it.

Time and poverty were pressing upon

Sarah Newbolt also, relaxing there thatbright hour in the sun, straying away fromher troubles and her vexations like anautumn butterfly among the golden leaves,unmindful of the frost which soon must cutshort its day. For, poor as she was in allthat governments put imposts upon, andmen list in tax returns and carry to steelvaults to hoard away, Sarah Newbolt hadher dreams. She had no golden past; therewas no golden future ready before herfeet. There was no review for her in thosevisions of happy days and tendermemories, over which a woman halfcloses her eyes and smiles, or over theincense of which a man’s heart softens.Behind her stretched a wake of turbulenceand strife; ahead of her lay the bankedclouds of an unsettled and insecure future.

But she had her dreams, in which eventhe poorest of us may indulge when ourtaskmaster in the great brickworks of thishot and heavy world is not hard by andpressing us forward with his lash. She hadher dreams of what never was and nevercould be; of old longings, old heart-hungers, old hopes, and loves which neverhad come near for one moment’s caress ofher toil-hardened hand. Dreams whichroved the world and soothed the ache inher heart by their very extravagance,which even her frugal conscience couldnot chide; dreams which drew hot tearsupon her cheeks, to trickle down amongher knotted fingers and tincture thebitterness of things unrealized.

The crunch of wheels in the road nowstartled her from her profitless excursions

among the mist of visions and dreams. Shelifted her head like a cow startled fromher peaceful grazing, for the vehicle hadstopped at the gap in the fence where thegate should have stood warder between itsleaning posts.

“Well, he’s come,” said she with theresignation of one who finds the longexpected and dreaded at hand.

A man got out of the buggy and hitchedhis horse to one of the old gate-posts, firsttrying it to satisfy himself that it wastrustworthy, for stability in even a post onthose premises, where everything wasgoing to decay, seemed unreasonable toexpect. He turned up the path, bordered byblue flags, thrusting their swordpointsthrough the ground, and strode toward thehouse, with that uncouth giving at the

knees which marks a man who long hasfollowed the plow across furrowed fields.

The visitor was tall and bony, brown,dry-faced, and frowning of aspect. Therewas severity in every line of his long,loose body; in the hard wrinkles of hisforehead, in his ill-nurtured gray beard,which was so harsh that it rasped likewire upon his coat as he turned his head inquick appraisement of his surroundings.His feet were bunion-distorted and lumpyin his great coarse shoes; coarse blackhair grew down upon his broad, thick-jointed hands; a thicket of eyebrowspresented, like a chevaux-de-frise,bristling when he drew them down in hispeering squint.

Sarah Newbolt rose to meet him, tall inthe vigor of her pioneer stock. In her face

there was a malarial smokiness of color,although it still held a trace of a pastbrightness, and her meagerness of featuregave her mouth a set of determinationwhich stood like a false index at thebeginning of a book or a misleading signupon a door. Her eyes were black, herbrows small and delicate. Back from hernarrow forehead she had drawn herplentiful dark hair in rigid unloveliness;over it she wore a knitted shawl.

“Well, Mr. Chase, you’ve come to putus out, I reckon?” said she, a little tremorin her chin, although her voice was steadyand her eyes met his with an appeal whichlay too near the soul for words.

Isom Chase drew up to the steps andplaced one knotted foot upon them,standing thus in silence a little while, as if

thinking it over. The dust of the highroadwas on his broad black hat, and gray uponhis grizzly beard. In the attitude of his leanframe, in the posture of his foot upon thestep, he seemed to be asserting a masteryover the place which he had invaded tothe sad dispersion of Sarah Newbolt’sdreams.

“I hate to do it,” he declared, speakinghurriedly, as if he held words but frailvehicles in a world where deeds countedwith so much greater weight, “but I’vebeen easy on you, ma’am; no man can saythat I haven’t been easy.”

“I know your money’s long past due,”she sighed, “but if you was to give Joeanother chance, Mr. Chase, we could payyou off in time.”

“Oh, another chance, another chance!”

said he impatiently. “What could you dowith all the chances in the world, you andhim–what did your husband ever do withhis chances? He had as many of ’em as Iever did, and what did he ever do butscheme away his time on fool things thatdidn’t pan out when he ought ’a’ been inthe field! No, you and Joe couldn’t payback that loan, ma’am, not if I was to giveyou forty years to do it in.”

“Well, maybe not,” said she, drawing asigh from the well of her sad old heart.

“The interest ain’t been paid sincePeter died, and that’s more than two yearsnow,” said Chase. “I can’t sleep on myrights that way, ma’am; I’ve got toforeclose to save myself.”

“Yes, you’ve been easy, even if we didgive you up our last cow on that there

inter-est,” she allowed. “You’ve been askind and easy over it, I reckon, Mr. Chase,as a body could be. Well, I reckon me andJoe we’ll have to leave the old placenow.”

“Lord knows, I don’t see what there isto stay for!” said Chase feelingly,sweeping his eyes around the wired-up,gone-to-the-devil-looking place.

“When a body’s bore children in aplace,” she said earnestly, “and nussed’em, and seen ’em fade away and die; andwhen a body’s lived in a house forupward of forty years, and thought thingsin it, and everything––”

“Bosh!” said Isom Chase, kicking therotting step.

“I know it’s all shacklety now,” saidshe apologetically, “but it’s home to me

and Joe!”Her voice trembled over the words, and

she wiped her eyes with the corner of herhead-shawl; but her face remained asimmobile as features cast in metal. Whenone has wept out of the heart for years, asSarah Newbolt had wept, the face is nolonger a barometer over the tempests ofthe soul.

Isom Chase was silent. He stood as ifreflecting his coming words, trying theloose boards of the siding with his bluntthumb.

“Peter and I, we came here fromKentucky,” said she, looking at him with asidelong appeal, as if for permission tospeak the profitless sentiments of herheart, “and people was scarce in this partof Missouri then. I rode all the way a-

horseback, and I came here, to this veryhouse, a bride.”

“I didn’t take a mortgage on sentiment–Itook it on the land,” said Chase, out ofhumor with this reminiscent history.

“You can’t understand how I feel, Mr.Chase,” said she, dropping her arms at hersides hopelessly. “Peter–he planted themlaylocks and them roses.”

“Better ’a’ planted corn–and tended toit!” grunted Chase. “Well, you can grub’em all up and take ’em away with you, ifyou want ’em. They don’t pay interest–Isuppose you’ve found that out.”

“Not on money,” said she, reaching outher hand toward a giant lilac with acaressing, tender air.

“Sit down,” said he in voice of

command, planting himself upon theporch, his back against a post, “and let’syou and I have a little talk. Where do youexpect to go when you leave here; whatplans have you got for the future?”

“Lord, there’s not a clap-board in thisworld that I can poke my head under andlay claim to its shelter!” said she, sittingagain in her low rocker, shaking her headsadly.

“Your boy Joe, he’ll not be able tocommand man’s wages for three or fouryears yet,” said Chase, studying heraverted face as if to take possession ofeven her thoughts. “He’ll not be able to domuch toward supportin’ you, even if hecould light on to a steady, all-the-year job,which he can’t, the way times is.”

“No, I don’t reckon he could,” said she.

“And if I was to let you two stay onhere I wouldn’t be any nearer bein’ paidback that four hundred dollar loan in twoor three years than I am now. It’s nearlyfive hundred now, with the interest pilin’up, and it’ll be a thousand before youknow it. It’d take that boy a lifetime to payit off.”

“Peter failed,” she nodded; “it was aburden on him that hackled him to thegrave. Yes, I reckon you’re right. Butthere’s no tellin’ how Joe he’ll turn out,Mr. Chase. He may turn out to be a bettermanager than his pap was.”

“How old is he?” asked Chase.“Most nineteen,” said she, some kind of

a faraway hope, indefinable and hazy,lifting the cloud of depression which hadfallen over her, “and he’s uncommon big

and stout for his age. Maybe if you’d giveJoe work he could pay it off, interest andall, by the time he’s twenty-one.”

“Not much need for him,” said Chase,shaking his head, “but I might–well, Imight figure around so I could take himover, on certain conditions, youunderstand? It all depends on your plans.If you haven’t anywhere to go when youleave this house, you’re bound to land onthe county.”

“Don’t tell me that, Mr. Chase–don’ttell me that!” she begged, pressing herbattered hands to her eyes, rocking andmoaning in her chair.

“What’s the use of puttin’ the truth backof you when you’re bound to come face upto it in the end?” he asked. “I was talkin’to Judge Little, of the county court, about

you this morning. I told him I’d have toforeclose and take possession of this fortyto save myself.

“‘It’ll throw her and that boy on thecounty,’ he says. ‘Yes, I reckon it will,’ Itold him, ‘but no man can say I’ve beenhard on ’em.’”

“Oh, you wouldn’t throw me on thecounty at the end of my days, Mr. Chase!”she appealed. “Joe he’ll take care of me,if you’ll only give him a chance–if you’llonly give him a chance, Mr. Chase!”

“I meant to take that up with you,” saidhe, “on the conditions I spoke of a minuteago.”

He turned to her, as if for her consent togive expression to his mysterious terms.She nodded, and he went on:

“In the winter time, ma’am, to tell youthe plain truth, Joe wouldn’t be worthwages to me, and in the summer not verymuch. A boy that size and age eats hishead off, you might say.

“But I’ll make you this offer, out ofconsideration of my friendship for Peter,and your attachment for the old place, andall of that stuff: I’ll take Joe over, underwriting, till he’s twenty-one, at ten dollarsa month and all found, winter and summerthrough, and allow you to stay right onhere in the house, with a couple of acresfor your chickens and garden patch andyour posies and all the things you set storeon and prize. I’ll do this for you, MissisNewbolt, but I wouldn’t do it for any otherhuman being alive.”

She turned slowly to him, an expression

of mingled amazement and fear on herface.

“You mean that you want me to bindJoe out to you till he’s his own man?” saidshe.

“Well, some call it by that name,”nodded Chase, “but it’s nothing more thanany apprenticeship to any trade, except–oh, well, there ain’t no difference, exceptthat there’s few trades that equal the onethe boy’ll learn under me, ma’am.”

“You’re askin’ me to bind my littleson–my only child left to me of all that Ibore–you want me to bind him out to youlike a nigger slave!”

Her voice fell away to a whisper,unable to bear the horror that grew intoher words.

“Better boys than him have been boundout in this neighborhood!” said Chasesharply. “If you don’t want to do it, don’tdo it. That’s all I’ve got to say. If you’drather go to the poorhouse than see yourson in steady and honorable employment,in a good home, and learning a businessunder a man that’s made some success ofit, that’s your lookout, not mine. But that’swhere you’ll land the minute you set yourfoot out in that road. Then the countycourt’ll take your boy and bind him out tosomebody, and you’ll have no word to sayin the matter, at all. But you can suityourself.”

“It–kind of–shook me,” she muttered,the mother-love, the honor and justice inher quailing heart shrinking back beforethe threat of that terrible disgrace–the

poorhouse.The shadow of the poorhouse had stood

in her way for years. It had been the fearof Peter when he was there, and his lastword was one of thankfulness to theAlmighty that he had been permitted to diein a freeman’s bed, under his own humbleroof. That consolation was to be deniedher; the shadow of the poorhouse hadadvanced until it stood now at her door.One step and it would envelop her; thetaint of its blight would wither her heart.

Sarah Newbolt had inherited that dreadof publicly confessed poverty anddependence. It had come down to herthrough a long line of pioneer forebearswho feared neither hardship, strife nordeath, so that it might come to themwithout a master and under the free sky.

Only the disgraced, the disowned, thefailures, and the broken-minded made anend in the poorhouse in those vigorousdays. It was a disgrace from which afamily never could hope to rise again.There, on the old farm with Peter she hadbeen poor, as poor as the poorest, but theyhad been free to come and go.

“I know I’ve got the name of being ahard man and a money-grabber and adriver,” said Chase with crabbedbitterness, “but who is it that gives thatreputation to me? People that can’t beatme and take advantage of me and workmoney out of me by their rascallyschemes! I’m not a hard man by nature–myactions with you prove that, don’t they?”

“You’ve been as kind as a body couldexpect,” she answered. “It’s only right that

you should have your money back, and itain’t been your fault that we couldn’t raiseit. But we’ve done the best we could.”

“And that best only led you up to thepoorhouse door,” said he. “I’m offeringyou a way to escape it, and spend the restof your days in the place you’re attachedto, but I don’t seem to get any thanks forit.”

“I am thankful to you for your offer–from the bottom of my heart I’m thankful,Mr. Chase,” she hastened to declare.

“Well, neither of us knows how Joe’sgoing to turn out,” said he. “Under mytraining he might develop into a good,sober farmer, one that knows his businessand can make it pay. If he does, I promiseyou I’ll give him a chance on this place toredeem it. I’ll put him on it to farm on

shares when he fills out his time under me,my share of the crops to apply to the debt.Would that be fair?”

“Nobody in this world couldn’t say itwasn’t generous and fair of you, and nobleand kind, Mr. Chase,” she declared, herface showing a little color, the couragecoming back into her eyes.

“Then you’d better take up my offerwithout any more foolishness,” headvised.

“I’ll have to talk it over with Joe,” saidshe.

“He’s got nothing to do with it, I tellyou,” protested Chase, brushing that phaseof it aside with a sweep of his hairy hand.“You, and you alone, are responsible forhim till he’s twenty-one, and it’s your dutyto keep him off the county and away from

the disgrace of pauperism, and yourself aswell.”

“I ought to see Joe about it first, Mr.Chase, I ought to talk it over with him. Letme think a minute.”

She settled down to her pensiveattitude, elbows on knees, chin in hands,and looked over the homely scene ofriotous shrubbery, racked buildings,leaning well-curb, rotting fences. In oneswift, painful moment she pictured whatthat spot would be after Isom Chase hadtaken possession.

He would uproot the lilacs; he wouldlevel the house and the chimney, stone bystone; he would fill up the well and pulldown the old barn that Peter built, anddrive his plow over the hearthstone whereshe had suckled her babies in the years of

her youth and hope. He would obliteratethe landmarks of her bridal days, and sowhis grain in the spot where Peter, fresh inthe strong heat of youth, had anchoredtheir ambitions.

It was not so much for what it had beenthat her heart was tender to it, for theyears had been heavy there and toilsome,disappointing and full of pain; not so muchfor what it had been, indeed, as what sheand young Peter, with the thick black hairupon his brow, had planned to make it. Itwas for the romance unlived, the hopeunrealized, that it was dear. And thenagain it was poor and pitiful, wind-shakenand old, but it was home. The thought ofthe desolation that waited it in the dreadfuture struck her breast like the pangs ofbereavement. Tears coursed down her

face; sobs rose in her aching throat.Joe, she thought, would do that much for

her and the old home place; it would bebut a little more than two years ofsacrifice for him, at the most, with thebright hope of independence andredemption at the end. Being bound outwould not be so disgraceful as going tothe poorhouse. Joe would do it for her,she was sure of that. But it would bebetter to wait until evening and ask him.

“Joe, he’ll be along home from hiswork about dusk,” said she, “and wecould let you know tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” said Isom Chase, risingstiffly, “I’ll have to send the sheriff herewith the papers. Tomorrow, ma’am, willbe too late.”

That dreadful picture swept across her

inner vision once more–the chimneydown, the house gone. She saw corngrowing over the spot where she sat thatmoment; she remembered that Isom Chasehad plowed up a burying-ground once andseeded it to timothy.

“What will I have to do to bind Joeover to you?” she asked, facing him insudden resolution.

“We’ll git in the buggy,” said he, withnew friendliness, seeing that he had won,“and drive over to Judge Little’s. He canmake out the papers in a few minutes, andI’ll pay you a month’s wages in advance.That will fix you up for groceries andgarden seeds and everything, and you’ll beas snug and happy as any woman in thecounty.”

In less than two hours the transaction

was completed, and Sarah Newbolt wasback again in the home upon which shehad secured her slipping tenure at thesacrifice of her son’s liberty. As shebegan “stirring the pots for supper,” as shecalled it, she also had time to stir the deepwaters of reflection.

She had secured herself from the threatof the county farm, and Joe had been theprice; Joe, her last-born, the soleremaining one of the six who had come toher and gone on again into the mists.

She began to fear in her heart when shestood off and viewed the result of herdesperate panic, the pangs of which IsomChase had adroitly magnified. If Joe couldwork for Isom Chase and thus keep herfrom the poorhouse, could he not haveworked for another, free to come and go

as he liked, and with the same security forher?

Chase said that he had not taken amortgage on sentiment, but he had madecapital out of it in the end, trading uponher affection for the old home and itsyears-long associations. As the gloomyevening deepened and she stood in thedoor watching for her son’s return, shesaw through the scheme of Isom Chase.She never would have been thrown on thecounty with Joe to depend on; the questionof his ability to support both of themadmitted of no debate.

Joe’s industry spoke for that, and thatwas Isom Chase’s reason for wanting him.Isom wanted him because he was strongand trustworthy, honest and faithful. Andshe had bargained him in selfishness and

sold him in cowardice, without a wordfrom him, as she might have sold a cow topay a pressing debt.

The bargain was binding. Judge Littlehad pressed that understanding of it uponher. It was as irrevocable as a deedsigned and sealed. Joe could not break it;she could not set it aside. Isom Chase wasempowered with all the authority ofabsolute master.

“If he does anything that deservesthrashing for, I’ve got a right to thrash him,do you understand that?” Isom had said ashe stood there in the presence of JudgeLittle, buttoning his coat over thedocument which transferred Joe’sservices to him.

Her heart had contracted at the words,for the cruelty of Isom Chase was

notorious. A bound boy had died in hisservice not many years before, kicked by amule, it was said. There had beenmutterings at that time, and talk of aninvestigation, which never came to a headbecause the bound lad was nobody, takenout of the county home. But the fear in thewidow’s heart that moment was not forher son; it was for Isom Chase.

“Lord ’a’ mercy, Mr. Chase, youmustn’t never strike Joe!” she warned.“You don’t know what kind of a boy he is,Mr. Chase. I’m afraid he might up and hurtyou maybe, if you ever done that.”

“I’ll handle him in my own way,” withportentous significance; “but I want you tounderstand my rights fully at the start.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered meekly.Joe was coming now, pitchfork over his

shoulder, from the field where he hadbeen burning corn-stalks, making ready forthe plow. She hastened to set out a basinof water on the bench beside the kitchendoor, and turned then into the room to lightthe lamp and place it on the waiting table.

Joe appeared at the door, drying hishands on the dangling towel. He was atall, gaunt-faced boy, big-boned, raw-jointed, the framework for prodigiousstrength. His shoulders all but filled thenarrow doorway, his crown came withinan inch of its lintel. His face was glowingfrom the scrubbing which he had given itwith home-made lye soap, his drenchedhair fell in heavy locks down his deepforehead.

“Well, Mother, what’s happened?” heasked, noting her uneasiness as she sat

waiting him at the table, the steamingcoffee-pot at her hand.

“Sit down and start your supper, son,and we’ll talk as we go along,” said she.

Joe gave his hair a “lick and a promise”with the comb, and took his place at thetable. Mrs. Newbolt bent her head andpronounced the thanksgiving which thathumble board never lacked, and she drewit out to an amazing and uncomfortablelength that evening, as Joe’s impatientstomach could bear clamorous witness.

Sarah Newbolt had a wide fame as areligious woman, and a woman who couldget more hell-fire into her belief and moremelancholy pleasure out of it than anyhard-shell preacher in the land. It was adoleful religion, with little promise orhope in it, and a great deal of blood and

suffering between the world and itsdoubtful reward; but Sarah Newbolt livedaccording to its stern inflexibility, andsang its sorrowful hymns by day, as shemoved about the house, in a voice thatcarried a mile. But for all the grimness inher creed, there was not a being alive witha softer heart. She would have divided herlast square of corn-bread with thewayfarer at her door, without question ofhis worth or unworthiness, his dissension,or his faith.

“Mr. Chase was here this afternoon,Joe,” said she as the lad began his supper.

“Well, I suppose he’s going to put usout?”

Joe paused in the mixing of gravy andcorn-bread–designed to be conveyed tohis mouth on the blade of his knife–and

lifted inquiring eyes to his mother’stroubled face.

“No, son; we fixed it up,” said she.“You fixed it up?” he repeated, his eyes

beaming with pleasure. “Is he going togive us another chance?”

“You go on and eat your supper, Joe;we’ll talk it over when you’re through.Lands, you must be tired and hungry afterworkin’ so hard all afternoon!”

He was too hungry, perhaps, to begreatly troubled by her air of uneasinessand distraction. He bent over his plate, notnoting that she sipped her coffee with aspoon, touching no food. At last he pushedback with a sigh of repletion, and smiledacross at his mother.

“So you fixed it up with him?”

“Yes, I went into a dishonorable dealwith Isom Chase,” said she, “and I don’tknow what you’ll say when you hearwhat’s to be told to you, Joe.”

“What do you mean by ‘dishonorabledeal’?” he asked, his face growing white.

“I don’t know what you’ll say, Joe, Idon’t know what you’ll say!” moaned she,shaking her head sorrowfully.

“Well, Mother, I can’t make out whatyou mean,” said he, baffled and mystifiedby her strange behavior.

“Wait–I’ll show you.”She rose from the table and reached

down a folded paper from among the sodapackages and tins on the shelf. Saying nomore, she handed it to him. Joe took it,wonder in his face, spread his elbows,

and unfolded the document with itsnotarial seal.

Joe was ready at printed matter. Heread fast and understandingly, and his facegrew paler as his eyes ran on from line toline. When he came to the end, where hismother’s wavering signature stood abovethat of Isom Chase, his head dropped alittle lower, his hands lay listlessly, as ifparalyzed, on the paper under his eyes. Asudden dejection seemed to settle overhim, blighting his youth and buoyancy.

Mrs. Newbolt was making out to bebusy over the stove. She lifted the lid ofthe kettle, and put it down with a clatter;she opened the stove and rammed the firewith needless severity with the poker, andit snapped back at her, shooting sparksagainst her hand.

“Mother, you’ve bound me out!” saidhe, his voice unsteady in its accusing note.

She looked at him, her hands startingout in a little movement of appeal. Heturned from the table and sat very straightand stern in his chair, his gaunt facehollowed in shadows, his wild hair fallingacross his brow.

“Oh, I sold you! I sold you!” shewailed.

She sat again in her place at the table,spiritless and afraid, her hands limp in herlap.

“You’ve bound me out!” Joe repeatedharshly, his voice rasping in his throat.

“I never meant to do it, Joe,” shepleaded in weak defense; “but Isom, hesaid nothing else would save us from the

county farm. I wanted to wait and ask you,Joe, and I told him I wanted to ask you,but he said it would be too late!”

“Yes. What else did he say?” askedJoe, his hands clenched, his eyes peeringstraight ahead at the wall.

She related the circumstances ofChase’s visit, his threat of eviction, hisdeclaration that she would become acounty charge the moment that she set footin the road.

“The old liar!” said Joe.There seemed to be nothing more for

her to say. She could make no defense ofan act which stood before her in all itsugly selfishness. Joe sat still, staring at thewall beyond the stove; she crouchedforward in her chair, as if to shrink out ofhis sight.

Between them the little glass lampstood, a droning, slow-winged brownbeetle blundering against its chimney.Outside, the distant chant of newlywakened frogs sounded; through the opendoor the warm air of the April night camestraying, bearing the incense of the fieldsand woodlands, where fires smolderedlike sleepers sending forth their dreams.

His silence was to her the heaviestrebuke that he could have administered.Her remorse gathered under it, hercontrition broke its bounds.

“Oh, I sold you, my own flesh andblood!” she cried, springing to her feet,lifting her long arms above her head.

“You knew what he was, Mother; youknew what it meant to be bound out to himfor two long years and more. It wasn’t as

if you didn’t know.”“I knew, I knew! But I done it, son, I

done it! And I done it to save my ownmis’able self. I ain’t got no excuse, Joe, Iain’t got no excuse at all.”

“Well, Mother, you’ll be safe here,anyhow, and I can stand it,” said Joe,brightening a little, the tense severity ofhis face softening. “Never mind; I canstand it, I guess.”

“I’ll never let you go to him–I didn’tmean to do it–it wasn’t fair the way hedrove me into it!” said she.

She laid her hand, almost timidly, onher son’s shoulder, and looked into hisface. “I know you could take care of meand keep off of the county, even if Isomdid put us out like he said he’d do, but Iwent and done it, anyhow. Isom led me

into it, Joe; he wasn’t fair.”“Yes, and you bound me out for about

half what I’m worth to any man and coulddemand for my services anywhere,Mother,” said Joe, the bitterness which hehad fought down but a moment pastsurging up in him again.

“Lord forgive me!” she supplicatedpiteously. She turned suddenly to the tableand snatched the paper. “It wasn’t fair–hefooled me into it!” she repeated. “I’ll tearit up, I’ll burn it, and we’ll leave thisplace and let him have it, and he can go onand do whatever he wants to with it–tearit down, burn it, knock it to pieces–foranything I care now!”

Joe restrained her as she went towardthe stove, the document in her hand.

“Wait, Mother; it’s a bargain. We’re

bound in honor to it, we can’t back downnow.”

“I’ll never let you do it!” she declared,her voice rising beyond her control. “I’llwalk the roads and beg my bread first! I’llhoe in the fields, I’ll wash folks’ clothesfor ’em like a nigger slave, I’ll lay downmy life, Joe, before I let you go into thatmurderin’ man’s hands!”

He took the paper from her handsgently.

“I’ve been thinking it over, Mother,”said he, “and it might be worse–it mightbe a good deal worse. It gives me steadywork, for one thing, and you can save mostof my wages, counting on the eggs you’llsell, and the few turkeys and things. Aftera while you can get a cow and makebutter, and we’ll be better off, all around.

We couldn’t get out of it, anyway, Mother.He’s paid you money, and you’ve signedyour name to the contract along with Isom.If we were to pull out and leave here,Isom could send the sheriff after me andbring me back, I guess. Even if he couldn’tdo that, he could sue you, Mother, andmake no end of trouble. But we wouldn’tleave if we could. It wouldn’t be quitehonorable, or like Newbolts at all, tobreak our contract that way.”

“But he’ll drive you to the grave, Joe!”A slow smile spread over his face. “I

don’t think Isom would find me a gooddriving horse,” said he.

“He said if you done well,” she toldhim, brightening as she clutched at thatsmall stay of justification, “he’d let youwork this place on shares till you paid off

the loan. That was one reason––”“Of course,” said Joe, a cheerfulness in

his voice which his pale cheeks did notsustain, “that was one thing I had in mindwhen I spoke. It’ll all come out right.You’ve done the wisest thing there was tobe done, Mother, and I’ll fulfill youragreement to the last day.”

“You’re a brave boy, Joe; you’re acredit to the memory of your pap,” saidshe.

“I’ll go over to Isom’s early in themorning,” said Joe, quite sprightly, as ifthe arrangement had indeed solved alltheir troubles. He stretched his arms witha prodigious yawn. “You don’t need tobother about getting up and fixingbreakfast for me, for I’ll get some overthere.”

“I hope he’ll give you enough,” saidshe.

“Don’t you worry over me,” hecounseled kindly, “for I’ll be all right atIsom’s. Sunday I’ll come home and seeyou. Now, you take a good sleep in themorning and don’t bother.”

“I’ll be up before you leave,” said she,her eyes overflowing with tears. “Do youreckon I could lie and sleep and slumberwhen my last and only livin’ one’s goin’away to become a servant in the house ofbondage? And I sold you to it, Joe, myown flesh and blood!”

There had been little tendernessbetween them all their days, for in suchlives of striving, poverty too often starvesaffection until it quits the board. But therewas a certain nobility of loyalty which

outlived the narrowness of their lot, andcertain traditions of chivalry in theNewbolt heritage which now guided Joe’shand to his mother’s head as she satweeping and moaning with her arms flungupon the disordered table.

“It’ll be all right, Mother,” he cheeredher, “and the time will soon pass away.What are two years to me? Not much morethan a month or two to an old man likeIsom. I tell you, this plan’s the finest thingin the world for you and me, Mother–don’tyou grieve over it that way.”

She was feeling the comfort of hischeerfulness when he left her to go to bed,although she was sore in conscience andspirit, sore in mind and heart.

“The Lord never gave any woman a sonlike him,” said she as the sound of Joe’s

steps fell quiet overhead, “and I’ve soldhim into slavery and bondage, just to savemy own unworthy, coward’y, sneakin’self!”

CHAPTER IIA DRY-SALT MAN

Joe was afoot early. His mother came tothe place in the fence where the gate oncestood to give him a last word of comfort,and to bewail again her selfishness insending him away to serve as bondboyunder the hard hand of Isom Chase. Joecheered her with hopeful pictures of thefuture, when the old home should beredeemed and the long-dwelling shadowof their debt to Isom cleared away andpaid. From the rise in the road which gavehim the last sight of the house Joe lookedback and saw her with her head bowed tothe topmost rail of the fence, a figure of

dejection and woe in the security whichshe had purchased for herself at such aheavy price.

Although Joe moved briskly along hisway, his feet as light as if they carried himto some destination of certain felicity,there was a cloud upon his heart. Thisarrangement which his mother had made inan hour of panic had disordered his plansand troubled the bright waters of hisdreams. Plans and dreams were all hisriches. They were the sole patrimony ofvalue handed down from Peter Newbolt,the Kentucky gentleman, who had marriedbelow his state and carried his youngmountain wife away to the Missouriwoods to escape the censure of family andcriticism of friends.

That was the only legacy, indeed, that

Joe was conscious of, but everybody elsewas aware that old Peter had left himsomething even more dangerous thandreams. That was nothing less than abridling, high-minded, hot-blooded pride–a thing laughable, the neighbors said, inone so bitterly and hopelessly poor.

“The pore folks,” the neighbors calledthe Newbolts in speaking of them one toanother, for in that community of fairlyprosperous people there was none so pooras they. The neighbors had magnified theirmisfortune into a reproach, and the “porefolks” was a term in which they foundmuch to compensate their small souls forthe slights which old Peter, in hisconscious superiority, unwittingly putupon them.

To the end of his days Peter never had

been wise enough to forget that nature hadendowed him, in many ways, above thelevel of the world to which Fate hadchained his feet, and his neighbors neverhad been kind enough to forget that he waspoor.

Even after Peter was dead Joe sufferedfor the family pride. He was still spokenof, far and near in that community, as the“pore folks’s boy.” Those who could notrise to his lofty level despised himbecause he respected the gerund, and alsosaid were where they said was, and thereare, where usage made it they is. It wasold Peter’s big-headedness and pride, theysaid. What business had the pore folks’sboy with the speech of a school-teacher orminister in his mouth? His “coming” andhis “going,” indeed! Huh, it made ’em

sick.Joe had lived a lonely, isolated life on

account of the family poverty and pride.He was as sensitive as a poet to theboorish brutality, and his poor, unlettered,garrulous mother made it worse for him byher boasting of his parts. She never failedto let it be known that he had read theBible through, “from back to back,” andt h e Cottage Encyclopedia, and theImitation of Christ, the three books in theNewbolt library.

People had stood by and watched PeterNewbolt at his schemes and dreams formany a year, and all the time they had seenhim growing poorer and poorer, andmarveled that he never appeared to realizeit himself. Just as a great many men spendtheir lives following the delusion that they

can paint or write, and waste theirenergies and resources on that false anddestructive idea, Peter had held the dreamthat he was singled out to revolutionizeindustry by his inventions.

He had invented a self-winding clockwhich, outside his own shop and in thehands of another, would not wind; a self-binding reaper that, in his neighbor’sfield, would not perform its part; and alamp that was designed to manufacture thegas that it burned from the water in itsbowl, but which dismally and ignoblyfailed. He had contrived and patented amachine for milking cows, which mighthave done all that was claimed for it ifanybody–cows included–could have beeninduced to give it a trial, and he hadfiddled around with perpetual motion until

the place was a litter of broken springsand rusty wheels.

Nothing had come of all this pother butrustic entertainment, although hedemonstrated the truth of his calculationsby geometry, and applied Greek names tothe things which he had done and hoped todo. All this had eaten up his energies, andhis fields had gone but half tilled. Perhapsback of all Peter’s futile strivings therehad lain the germ of some useful thingwhich, if properly directed, might havegrown into the fortune of his dreams. Buthe had plodded in small ways, and haddied at last, in debt and hopeless, leavingnothing but a name of reproach whichlived after him, and even hung upon hisson that cool April morning as he wentforward to assume the penance that his

mother’s act had set for him to bear.And the future was clouded to Joe

Newbolt now, like a window-pane withfrost upon it, where all had been so clearin his calculations but a day before. In hisheart he feared the ordeal for Isom Chasewas a man of evil repute.

Long ago Chase’s first wife had died,without issue, cursed to her grave becauseshe had borne him no sons to labor in hisfields. Lately he had married another, awoman of twenty, although he was wellalong the road to sixty-five himself. Hissecond wife was a stranger in thatcommunity, the daughter of a farmernamed Harrison, who dwelt beyond thecounty-seat.

Chase’s homestead was a placepleasant enough for the abode of

happiness, in spite of its grim history andsordid reputation. The mark of thrift wasabout it, orchards bloomed upon its fairslopes, its hedges graced the highwayslike cool, green walls, not a leaf in excessupon them, not a protruding bramble. HowIsom Chase got all the work done was amatter of unceasing wonder, for nothingtumbled to ruin there, nothing went towaste. The secret of it was, perhaps, thatwhen Chase did hire a man he got threetimes as much work out of him as alaborer ordinarily performed.

There were stories abroad that Chasewas as hard and cruel to his young wife ashe had been to his old, but there was nobetter warrant for them than his generalreputation. It was the custom in those daysfor a woman to suffer greater indignities

and cruelties than now without publiccomplaint. There never had been aseparation of man and wife in thatcommunity, there never had been a suit fordivorce. Doubtless there were as manyunhappy women to the square mile thereas in other places, but custom ruled thatthey must conceal their sorrows in theirbreasts.

To all of these things concerning IsomChase, Joe Newbolt was no stranger. Heknew, very well indeed, the life that layahead of him as the bondboy of that oldman as he went forward along the dew-moist road that morning.

Early as it was, Isom Chase had beenout of bed two hours or more when Joearrived. The scents of frying food cameout of the kitchen, and Isom himself was

making a splash in a basin of water–onething that he could afford to be liberalwith three times a day–on the porch nearthe open door.

Joe had walked three miles, theconsuming fires of his growing body weredemanding food. The odors of breakfaststruck him with keen relish as he waited atthe steps of the porch, unseen by IsomChase, who had lifted his face from thebasin with much snorting, and was nowdrying it on a coarse brown towel.

“Oh, you’re here,” said he, seeing Joeas he turned to hang up the towel. “Well,come on in and eat your breakfast. Weought to ’a’ been in the field nearly anhour ago.”

Hungry as he was, Joe did not advanceto accept the invitation, which was not

warmed by hospitality, indeed, butsounded rather like a command. He stoodwhere he had stopped, and pushed hisflap-brimmed hat back from his forehead,in nervous movement of decision. Chaseturned, half-way to the door, looking backat his bound boy with impatience.

“No need for you to be bashful. This ishome for a good while to come,” said he.

“I’m not so very bashful,” Joedisclaimed, placing the little roll whichcontained his one extra shirt on the wash-bench near the door, taking off his hat,then, and standing serious and solemnbefore his new master.

“Well, I don’t want to stand herewaitin’ on you and dribble away the day,for I’ve got work to do!” said Isom sourly.

“Yes, sir,” said Joe, yielding the point

respectfully, but standing his ground; “butbefore I go across your doorstep, and sitat your table and break bread with you, Iwant you to understand my position in thismatter.”

“It’s all settled between your motherand me,” said Chase impatiently, drawingdown his bayoneted eyebrows in a frown,“there’s no understanding to come tobetween me and you–you’ve got nothing tosay in the transaction. You’re bound out tome for two years and three months at tendollars a month and all found, and thatsettles it.”

“No, it don’t settle it,” said Joe withrising heat; “it only begins it. Before I puta bite in my mouth in this house, or set myhand to any work on this place, I’m goingto lay down the law to you, Mr. Chase,

and you’re going to listen to it, too!”“Now, Joe, you’ve got too much sense

to try to stir up a row and rouse hardfeelin’s between us at the start,” saidIsom, coming forward with his soft-soapof flattery and crafty conciliation.

“If I hadn’t ’a’ known that you was thesmartest boy of your age anywhere aroundhere, do you suppose I’d have taken you inthis way?”

“You scared mother into it; you didn’tgive me a chance to say anything, and youtook an underhanded hold,” charged Joe,his voice trembling with scarce-controlledanger. “It wasn’t right, Isom, it wasn’tfair. You know I could hire out any dayfor more than ten dollars a month, and youknow I’d never let mother go on the countyas long as I was able to lift a hand.”

“Winter and summer through, Joe–youmust consider that,” argued Isom, givinghis head a twist which was meant to beillustrative of deep wisdom.

“You knew she was afraid of beingthrown on the county,” said Joe, “yousneaked in when I wasn’t around andscared her up so she’d do most anything.”

“Well, you don’t need to talk so loud,”cautioned Isom, turning an uneasy, crosslook toward the door, from which thesound of a light step fled.

“I’ll talk loud enough for you to hearme, and understand what I mean,” saidJoe. “I could run off and leave you, Isom,if I wanted to, but that’s not my way.Mother made the bargain, I intend to liveup to it, and let her have what little benefitthere is to be got out of it. But I want you

to know what I think of you at the start,and the way I feel about it. I’m here towork for mother, and keep that old roofover her head that’s dearer to her than life,but I’m not your slave nor your servant inany sense of the word.”

“It’s all the same to me,” said Isom,dropping his sham front of placation,lifting his finger to accent his words, “butyou’ll work, understand that–you’llwork!”

“Mother told me,” said Joe not in theleast disturbed by this glimpse of Isom inhis true guise, “that you had that notion inyour mind, Isom. She said you told her youcould thrash me if you wanted to do it, butI want to tell you––”

“It’s the law,” cut in Isom. “I can do itif I see fit.”

“Well, don’t ever try it,” said Joe,drawing a long breath. “That was the mainthing I wanted to say to you, Isom–don’tever try that!”

“I never intended to take a swingle-treeto you, Joe,” said Isom, forcing his dryface into a grin. “I don’t see that thereever need be any big differences betweenme and you. You do what’s right by meand I’ll do the same by you.”

Isom spoke with lowered voice, aturning of the eyes toward the kitchendoor, as if troubled lest this defiance ofhis authority might have been heardwithin, and the seeds of insubordinationsown in another bond-slave’s breast.

“I’ll carry out mother’s agreement withyou to the best of my ability,” said Joe,moving forward as if ready now to begin.

“Then come on in and eat yourbreakfast,” said Isom.

Isom led the way into the smokykitchen, inwardly more gratified thandispleased over this display of spirit.According to the agreement between them,he had taken under bond-service theWidow Newbolt’s “minor male child,”but it looked to him as if some mistake hadbeen made in the delivery.

“He’s a man!” exulted Isom in his heart,pleased beyond measure that he hadbargained better than he had known.

Joe put his lean brown hand into thebosom of his shirt and brought out a queer,fat little book, leather-bound and worn ofthe corners. This he placed on top of hisbundle, then followed Chase into thekitchen where the table was spread for

breakfast.Mrs. Chase was busy straining milk.

She did not turn her head, nor give theslightest indication of friendliness orinterest in Joe as he took the place pointedout by Chase. Chase said no word ofintroduction. He turned his plate over witha businesslike flip, took up the platterwhich contained two fried eggs and a fewpieces of bacon, scraped off his portion,and handed the rest to Joe.

In addition to the one egg each, and thefragments of bacon, there were soddenbiscuits and a broken-nosed pitcherholding molasses. A cup of roiled coffeestood ready poured beside each plate, andthat was the breakfast upon which Joe casthis curious eyes. It seemed absurdlyinadequate to the needs of two strong men,

accustomed as Joe was to four eggs at ameal, with the stays of life which wentwith them in proportion.

Mrs. Chase did not sit at the table withthem, nor replenish the empty platter,although Joe looked expectantly andhungrily for her to do so. She was carryingpans of milk into the cellar, and did notturn her head once in their direction duringthe meal.

Joe rose from the table hungry, and inthat uneasy state of body began his firstday’s labor on Isom Chase’s farm. Hehoped that dinner might repair theshortcomings of breakfast, and went to thetable eagerly when that hour came.

For dinner there was hog-jowl andbeans, bitter with salt, yellow with salt,but apparently greatly to the liking of

Isom, whose natural food seemed to be thevery essence of salt.

“Help yourself, eat plenty,” he invitedJoe.

Jowls and beans were cheap; he couldafford to be liberal with that meal.Generosity in regard to that five-year-oldjowl cost him scarcely a pang.

“Thank you,” said Joe politely. “I’mdoing very well.”

A place was laid for Mrs. Chase, as atbreakfast, but she did not join them at thetable. She was scalding milk crocks andpans, her face was red from the steam. Asshe bent over the sink the uprising vapormoved her hair upon her temples like awind.

“Ain’t you goin’ to eat your dinner,

Ollie?” inquired Isom with considerablelightness, perhaps inspired by the hopethat she was not.

“I don’t feel hungry right now,” sheanswered, bending over her steaming panof crocks.

Isom did not press her on the matter. Hefilled up his plate again with beans andjowl, whacking the grinning jawbone withhis knife to free the clinging shreds ofmeat.

Accustomed as he had been all his lifeto salt fare, that meal was beyond anythingin that particular of seasoning that Joeever had tasted. The fiery demand of hisstomach for liquid dilution of his salinerepast made an early drain on his coffee;when he had swallowed the last bean thathe was able to force down, his cup was

empty. He cast his eyes about inquiringlyfor more.

“We only drink one cup of coffee at ameal here,” explained Isom, a rebuke inhis words for the extravagance of thosewhose loose habits carried them beyondthat abstemious limit.

“All right; I guess I can make out onthat,” said Joe.

There was a pitcher of water at hishand, upon which he drew heavily, withthe entire good-will and approbation ofIsom. Then he took his hat from the floorat his feet and went out, leaving Isomhammering again at the jowl, this timewith the handle of his fork, in the hope ofdislodging a bit of gristle which clung toone end.

Joe’s hope leaped ahead to supper,

unjustified as the flight was by the day’sdevelopments. Human creatures could notsubsist longer than a meal or two on suchfare as that, he argued; there must be achange very soon, of course.

It was a heavy afternoon for Joe. Hewas weary from the absolute lack ofnourishment when the last of the choreswas done long after dusk, and Isomannounced that they would go to the housefor supper.

The supper began with soup, made fromthe left-over beans and the hog’s jaw ofdinner. There it swam, that fleshless, long-toothed, salt-reddened bone, the mosthateful piece of animal anatomy that Joeever fixed his hungry eyes upon. Andsupper ended as it began; with soup.There was nothing else behind it, save

some hard bread to soak in it, and its onlysavor was salt.

Isom seemed to be satisfied with, evencheered by, his liquid refreshment. Hiswife came to her place at the table whenthey were almost through, and sat stirringa bowl of the mixture of bread and thinsoup, her eyes set in abstracted stare in themiddle of the table, far beyond the workof her hands. She did not speak to Joe; hedid not undertake any friendly approaches.

Joe never had seen Mrs. Chase beforethat day, neighbors though they had beenfor months. She appeared unusuallyhandsome to Joe, with her fair skin, andhair colored like ripe oats straw. Shewore a plait of it as big as his wrist coiledand wound around her head.

For a little while after finishing his

unsatisfying meal, Joe sat watching hersmall hand turning the spoon in her soup.He noted the thinness of her young cheeks,in which there was no marvel, seeing thefare upon which she was forced to live.She seemed to be unconscious of him andIsom. She did not raise her eyes.

Joe got up in a little while and leftthem, going to the porch to look for hisbundle and his book. They were gone. Hecame back, standing hesitatingly in thedoor.

“They’re in your room upstairs,” saidMrs. Chase without turning her head tolook at him, still leaning forward over herbowl.

“I’ll show you where it is,” Isomoffered.

He led the way up the stairs which

opened from the kitchen, carrying a smalllamp in his hand.

Joe’s room was over the kitchen. It wasbleak and bare, its black rafters hung withspiderwebs, plastered with the nests ofwasps. A dormer window jutted towardthe east like a hollow eye, designed, nodoubt, and built by Isom Chase himself, tocatch the first gleam of morning and throwit in the eyes of the sleeping hired-hand,whose bed stood under it.

Isom came down directly, took hislantern, and went to the barn to look aftera new-born calf. Where there was profit,such as he counted it, in gentleness, IsomChase could be as tender as a mother.Kind words and caresses, according to hisexperience, did not result in any morework out of a wife so he spared them the

young woman at the table, as he haddenied them the old one in her grave.

As Isom hurried out into the soft night,with a word about the calf, Ollie made abitter comparison between her lot and thatof the animals in the barn. Less than sixmonths before that gloomy night she hadcome to that house a bride, won by theprospect of ease and independence whichChase had held out to her in the briefseason of his adroit courtship. Themeanest men sometimes turn out to be thenimblest cock-pheasants during thatinteresting period, and, like those vainbirds of the jungles, they strut and danceand cut dazzling capers before the eyes ofthe ladies when they want to strike up amatrimonial bargain.

Isom Chase had done that. He had been

a surprising lover for a dry man of hisyears, spurring around many a youngerman in the contest for Ollie’s hand.Together with parental encouragement andher own vain dreams, she had not found ithard to say the word that made her hiswife. But the gay feathers had fallen fromhim very shortly after their wedding day,revealing the worm which they hadhidden; the bright colors of his courtshipparade had faded like the fustiandecorations of a carnival in the rain.

Isom was a man of bone and dry skin,whose greed and penury had starved hisown soul. He had brought her there andput burdens upon her, with the assurancethat it would be only for a little while,until somebody could be hired to take thework off her hands. Then he had advanced

the plea of hard times, when the firstexcuse had worn out; now he had droppedall pretenses. She was serving, as he hadmarried her to serve, as he had broughther there in unrecompensed bondage toserve, and hope was gone from herhorizon, and her tears were undried uponher cheeks.

Isom had profited by a good day’s workfrom Joe, and he had not been obliged todrive him to obtain it. So he was in greatspirits when he came back from the barn,where he had found the calf coming onsturdily and with great promise. He putout the lantern and turned the lamp down ashade seeing that it was consuming atwentieth more oil than necessary to lightOllie about her work. Then he sat downbeside the table, stretching his long legs

with a sigh.Ollie was washing the few dishes

which had served for supper, movingbetween table and sink with quickcompetence, making a neat figure in thesomber room. It was a time when a naturalman would have filled his pipe andbrought out the weekly paper, or sat andgossiped a comfortable hour with hiswife. But Isom never had cheered hisatrophied nerves with a whiff of tobacco,and as for the county paper, or any paperwhatever except mortgages and deeds,Isom held all of them to be frauds andextravagances which a man was better offwithout.

“Well, what do you think of the newhand?” asked Isom, following her with hiseyes.

“I didn’t pay any particular notice tohim,” said she, her back toward him asshe stood scraping a pan at the sink.

“Did you hear what he said to me thismorning when he was standin’ there by thesteps?”

“No, I didn’t hear,” listlessly,indifferently.

“H’m–I thought you was listening.”“I just looked out to see who it was.”“No difference if you did hear, Ollie,”

he allowed generously–for Isom. “Aman’s wife ought to share his businesssecrets, according to my way of lookin’ atit; she’s got a right to know what’s goingon. Well, I tell you that chap talked up tome like a man!”

Isom smacked his lips over the

recollection. The promise of it was sweetto his taste.

Ollie’s heart stirred a little. Shewondered if someone had entered thathouse at last who would be able to set atdefiance its stern decrees. She hoped that,if so, this breach in the grim wall might letsome sunlight in time into her own bleakheart. But she said nothing to Isom, and hetalked on.

“I made a good pick when I lit on thatboy,” said he, with that old wise twist ofthe head; “the best pick in this county, by along shot. I choose a man like I pick ahorse, for the blood he shows. A bloodedhorse will endure where a plug will falldown, and it’s the same way with a man.Ollie, don’t you know that boy’s got asgood a strain in him as you’ll find in this

part of the country?”“I never saw him before today, I don’t

know his folks,” said she, apparently littleinterested in her husband’s find.

Isom sat silent for a while, looking atthe worn floor.

“Well, he’s bound out to me for twoyears and more,” said he, the comfort of itin his hard, plain face. “I’ll have a steadyhand that I can depend on now. That’s aboy that’ll do his duty; no doubt in mymind about that. It may go against the grainonce in a while, Ollie, like our duty doesfor all of us sometimes; but, no matter howit tastes to him, that boy Joe, he’ll face it.

“He’s not one of the kind that’ll shirkon me when my back’s turned, or stealfrom me if he gets a chance, or betray anytrust I put in him. He’s as poor as blue-

John and as proud as Lucifer, but he’s asstraight as the barrel of that old gun. He’sgot Kentucky blood in him, and the best ofit, too.”

“He brought a funny little Bible withhim,” said Ollie in low voice, as ifcommuning with herself.

“Funny?” said Isom. “Is that so?”“So little and fat,” she explained. “I

never saw one like it before. It was thereon the bench this morning with his bundle.I put it up by his bed.”

“Hum-m,” said Isom reflectively, as ifconsidering it deeply. Then: “Well, Iguess it’s all right.”

Isom sat a good while, fingering hisstiff beard. He gave no surface indicationof the thoughts which were working within

him, for he was unlike those sentimental,plump, thin-skinned people who cannotconceal their emotions from the world.Isom might have been dreaming of gain, orhe might have been contemplating the dayof loss and panic, for all that his facerevealed. Sun and shadow alike passedover it, as rain and blast and summer sunpass over and beat upon a stone, leavingno mark behind save in that slow andpainful wear which one must live acentury to note. He looked up at his wifeat length, his hand still in his beard, andstudied her silently.

“I’m not a hard man, Ollie, like somepeople give me the name of being,” hecomplained, with more gentleness in hisvoice than she had heard since he wascourting her. He still studied her, as if he

expected her to uphold common report andprotest that he was hard and cruel-drivingin his way. She said nothing; Isomproceeded to give himself the good ratingwhich the world denied.

“I’m not half as mean as some enviouspeople would make out, if they could findanybody to take stock in what they say. IfI’m not as honey-mouthed as some, that’sbecause I’ve got more sense than todiddle-daddle my time away in wordswhen there’s so much to do. I’ll show youthat I’m as kind at heart, Ollie, as any manin this county, if you’ll stand by me and doyour part of what’s to be done withoutblack looks and grumbles and growls.

“I’m a good many years older than you,and maybe I’m not as light-footed andlight-headed as you’d like a husband to

be, but I’ve got weight to me where itcounts. I could buy out two-thirds of theyoung fellers in this county, Ollie, all in abunch.”

“Yes, Isom, I guess you could,” sheallowed, a weary drag in her voice.

“I’ll put a woman in to do the workhere in the fall, when I make a turn of mycrops and money comes a little freer thanit does right now,” he promised. “Intereston my loans is behind in a good manycases, and there’s no use crowdin’ ’em topay till they sell their wheat and hogs. If Ihad the ready money in hand to pay wages,Ollie, I’d put a nigger woman in heretomorrow and leave you nothing to do butoversee. You’ll have a fine easy time of itthis fall, Ollie, when I turn my crops.”

Ollie drained the dishpan and wrung out

the cloths. These she hung on a line to dry.Isom watched her with approval, pleasedto see her so housewifely and neat.

“Ollie, you’ve come on wonderfulsince I married you,” said he. “When youcome here–do you recollect?–you couldn’thardly make a mess of biscuits that was fitto eat, and you knew next to nothing aboutmilk and butter for all that you wasbrought up on a farm.”

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson,” saidshe, with a bitterness which passed overIsom’s head.

Her back was turned to him, she wasreaching to hang a utensil on the wall, sohigh above her head that she stood ontiptoe. Isom was not insensible to thepretty lines of her back, the curve of herplump hips, the whiteness of her naked

arms. He smiled.“Well, it’s worth money to you to know

all these things,” said he, “and I don’tknow but it’s just as well for you to go onand do the work this summer for thebenefit of what’s to be got out of it; you’llbe all the better able to oversee a niggerwoman when I put one in, and all thebetter qualified to take things into yourown hands when I’m done and in thegrave. For I’ll have to go, in fifteen ortwenty years more,” he sighed.

Ollie made no reply. She was standingwith her back still turned toward him,stripping down her sleeves. But the sighwhich she gave breath to sounded loud inIsom’s ears.

Perhaps he thought she wascontemplating with concern the day when

he must give over his strivings andhoardings, and leave her widowed andalone. That may have moved him to hisnext excess of generosity.

“I’m going to let Joe help you aroundthe house a good deal, Ollie,” said he.“He’ll make it a lot easier for you thissummer. He’ll carry the swill down to thehogs, and water ’em, and take care of thecalves. That’ll save you a good manysteps in the course of the day.”

Ollie maintained her ungrateful silence.She had heard promises before, and shehad come to that point of hopelessnesswhere she no longer seemed to care. Isomwas accustomed to her silences, also; itappeared to make little difference to himwhether she spoke or held her peace.

He sat there reflectively a little while;

then got up, stretching his arms, yawningwith a noise like a dog.

“Guess I’ll go to bed,” said he.He looked for a splinter on a stick of

stove-wood, which he lit at the stove andcarried to his lamp. At the door he paused,turned, and looked at Ollie, his hand,hovering like a grub curved beside thechimney, shading the light from his eyes.

“So he brought a Bible, did he?”“Yes.”“Well, he’s welcome to it,” said Isom.

“I don’t care what anybody that works forme reads–just so long as he works!”

Isom’s jubilation over his bondboy sethis young wife’s curiosity astir. She hadnot noted any romantic or noble partsabout the youth in the casual, uninterested

view which she had given him that day.To her then he had appeared only asprangling, long-bodied, long-legged,bony-shouldered, unformed lad whosehollow frame indicated a great capacityfor food. Her only thought in connectionwith him had been that it meant anothermouth to dole Isom’s slender allowanceout to, more scheming on her part to makethe rations go round. It meant another oneto wash for, another bed to make.

She had thought of those things wearilythat morning when she heard the newvoice at the kitchen door, and she hadgone there for a moment to look him over;for strange faces, even those of loutishfarm-hands, were refreshing in herisolated life. She had not heard what thelad was saying to Isom, for the kitchen

was large and the stove far away from thedoor, but she had the passing thought thatthere was a good deal of earnestness orpassion in the harangue for a farm-hand tobe laying on his early morning talk.

When she found the Bible lying there ontop of Joe’s hickory shirt, she hadconcluded that he had been talkingreligion. She hoped that he would notpreach at his meals. The only religion thatOllie knew anything of, and not much ofthat, was a glum and melancholy kind,with frenzied shoutings of the preacher init, and portentous shaking of the beard inthe shudderful pictures of the anguish ofunrepentant death. So she hoped that hewould not preach at his meals, for thehouse was sad enough, and terrible andgloomily hopeless enough, without the

kind of religion that made the night deeperand the day longer in its dread.

Now Isom’s talk about the lad’s blood,and his expression of high confidence inhis fealty, gave her a pleasant topic ofspeculation. Did good blood make mendifferent from those who came of mongrelstrain, in other points than that ofendurance alone? Did it give men nobilityand sympathy and loftiness, or was itsomething prized by those who hired them,as Isom seemed to value it in Joe, becauseit lent strength to the arms?

Ollie sat on the kitchen steps and turnedall this over in her thoughts after Isom hadgone to bed.

Perhaps in the new bondboy, who hadcome there to serve with her, she wouldfind one with whom she might talk and

sometimes ease her heart. She hoped thatit might be so, for she needed chatter andlaughter and the common sympathies ofyouth, as a caged bird requires the seed ofits wild life. There was hope in the newfarm-hand which swept into her heart likea refreshing breeze. She would look himover and sound him when he worked,choring between kitchen and barn.

Ollie had been a poor man’s child.Isom had chosen her as he would haveselected a breeding-cow, because nature,in addition to giving her a form of singulargrace and beauty, had combined thereinthe utilitarian indications of ability toplentifully reproduce her kind. Isomwanted her because she was alert andquick of foot, and strong to bear theburdens of motherhood; for even in the

shadow of his decline he still held to thehope of his youth–that he might leave ason behind him to guard his acres andbring down his name.

Ollie was no deeper than heropportunities of life had made her. Shehad no qualities of self-development, andwhile she had graduated from a highschool and still had the ornate diplomaamong her simple treasures, learning hadpassed through her pretty ears like waterthrough a funnel. It had swirled andchoked there a little while, just longenough for her to make her “points”required for passing, then it had sped onand left her unencumbered and free.

Her mother had always held Ollie’sbeauty a greater asset than mental graces,and this early appraisement of it at its

trading value had made Ollie a bit vainand ambitious to mate above her family.Isom Chase had held out to her all theallurements of which she had dreamed,and she had married him for his money.She had as well taken a stone to her softbosom in the hope of warming it intoyielding a flower.

Isom was up at four o’clock nextmorning. A few minutes after him Olliestumbled down the stairs, heavy with thepain of broken sleep. Joe was snoringabove-stairs; the sound penetrated to thekitchen down the doorless casement.

“Listen to that feller sawin’ gourds!”said Isom crabbedly.

The gloom of night was still in thekitchen; in the corner where the stovestood it was so dark that Ollie had to

grope her way, yawning heavily, feelingthat she would willingly trade the last yearof her life for one more hour of sleep thatmoist spring morning.

Isom mounted the kitchen stairs androused Joe, lumbering down againstraightway and stringing the milk-pails onhis arms without waiting to see the resultof his summons.

“Send him on down to the barn whenhe’s ready,” directed Isom, jangling awayin the pale light of early day.

Ollie fumbled around in her dark cornerfor kindling, and started a fire in thekitchen stove with a great rattling of lids.Perhaps there was more alarm thannecessary in this primitive and homelytask, sounded with the friendly intention ofcarrying a warning to Joe, who was

making no move to obey his master’s call.Ollie went softly to the staircase and

listened. Joe’s snore was rumbling again,as if he traveled a heavy road in the landof dreams. She did not feel that she couldgo and shake him out of his sleep andwarn him of the penalty of such remission,but she called softly from where shestood:

“Joe! You must get up, Joe!”But her voice was not loud enough to

wake a bird. Joe slept on, like a heavy-headed boor, and she went back to thestove to put the kettle on to boil. The issueof his recalcitration must be left betweenhim and Isom. If he had good blood inhim, perhaps he would fight when Isomlifted his hand and beat him out of hissleep, she reflected, hoping simply that it

would turn out that way.Isom came back to the house in frothing

wrath a quarter of an hour later. Therewas no need to ask about Joe, for thebound boy’s nostrils sounded his ownbetrayal.

Isom did not look at Ollie as he took thesteep stairs four treads at a step. In amoment she heard the sleeper’s bedsqueaking in its rickety old joints as herhusband shook him and cut short his snorein the middle of a long flourish.

“Turn out of here!” shouted Isom in hismost terrible voice–which was to Ollie’sears indeed a dreadful sound–“turn outand git into your duds!”

Ollie heard the old bed give an extraloud groan, as if the sleeper had drawnhimself up in it with suddenness;

following that came the quick scuffling ofbare feet on the floor.

“Don’t you touch me! Don’t you layhands on me!” she heard the bound boywarn, his voice still husky with sleep.

“I’ll skin you alive!” threatened Isom.“You’ve come here to work, not to trifleyour days away sleepin’. A good dose ofstrap-oil’s what you need, and I’m the manto give it to you, too!”

Isom’s foot was heavy on the floor overher head, moving about as if in search ofsomething to use in the flagellation. Olliestood with hands to her tumultuous bosom,pity welling in her heart for the lad whowas to feel the vigor of Isom’s unsparingarm.

There was a lighter step upon the floor,moving across the room like a sudden

wind. The bound boy’s voice soundedagain, clear now and steady, near the topof the stairs where Isom stood.

“Put that down! Put that down, I tellyou!” he commanded. “I warned you neverto lift your hand against me. If you hit mewith that I’ll kill you in your tracks!”

Ollie’s heart leaped at the words; hotblood came into her face with a surge. Sheclasped her hands to her breast in newfervor, and lifted her face as one speedinga thankful prayer. She had heard IsomChase threatened and defied in his ownhouse, and the knowledge that one livedwith the courage to do what she hadlonged to do, lifted her heart and made itglad.

She heard Isom growl something in histhroat, muffled and low, which she could

not separate into words.“Well, then, I’ll let it pass–this time,”

said Joe. “But don’t you ever do it anymore. I’m a heavy sleeper sometimes, andthis is an hour or two earlier than I amused to getting up; but if you’ll call meloud enough, and talk like you werecalling a man and not a dog, you’ll haveno trouble with me. Now get out of here!”

Ollie could have shouted in the triumphof that moment. She shared the boundboy’s victory and exulted in his highindependence. Isom had swallowed it likea coward; now he was coming down thestairs, snarling in his beard, but hisknotted fist had not enforced discipline;his coarse, distorted foot had not beenlifted against his new slave. She felt thatthe dawn was breaking over that house,

that one had come into it who would easeher of its terrors.

Joe came along after Isom in a littlewhile, slipping his suspenders over hislank shoulders as he went out of thekitchen door. He did not turn to Ollie withthe morning’s greetings, but held his facefrom her and hurried on, she thought, as ifashamed.

Ollie ran to the door on her nimble toes,the dawn of a smile on her face, now rosywith its new light, and looked after him ashe hurried away in the brightening day.S h e stood with her hands clasped inattitude of pleasure, again lifting her faceas if to speed a prayer.

“Oh, thank God for a man!” said she.Isom was in a crabbed way at

breakfast, sulky and silent. But his evil

humor did not appear to weigh with anyshadow of trouble on Joe, who ate whatwas set before him like a hungry horse andlooked around for more.

Ollie’s interest in Joe was acutelysharpened by the incident of rising. Theremust be something uncommon, indeed, in alad of Joe’s years, she thought, to enablehim to meet and pass off such a seriousthing in that untroubled way. As sheserved the table, there being griddle-cakesof cornmeal that morning to flank the oneegg and fragments of rusty bacon each, shestudied the boy’s face carefully. She notedthe high, clear forehead, the large nose,the fineness of the heavy, black hair whichlay shaggy upon his temples. She studiedthe long hands, the grave line of his mouth,and caught a quick glimpse now and then

of his large, serious gray eyes.Here was an uncommon boy, with the

man in him half showing; Isom was rightabout that. Let it be blood or what it might,she liked him. Hope of the cheer that hesurely would bring into that dark housequickened her cheek to a color which hadgrown strange to it in those heavy months.

Joe’s efforts in the field must have beenhighly satisfactory to Isom that forenoon,for the master of the house came to thetable at dinner-time in quite a livelymood. The morning’s unpleasantnessseemed to have been forgotten. Ollienoticed her husband more than once duringthe meal measuring Joe’s capabilities forfuture strength with calculating, satisfiedeyes. She sat at the table with them, takingminute note of Joe at closer range,

studying him curiously, awed a little bythe austerity of his young face, and themelancholy of his eyes, in which thereseemed to lie the concentrated sorrow ofmany forebears who had suffered and diedwith burdens upon their hearts.

“Couldn’t you manage to pick us a messof dandelion for supper, Ollie?” askedIsom. “I notice it’s comin’ up thick in theyard.”

“I might, if I could find the time,” saidOllie.

“Oh, I guess you’ll have time enough,”said Isom, severely.

Her face grew pale; she lowered herhead as if to hide her fear from Joe.

“Cook it with a jowl,” ordered Isom;“they go fine together, and it’s good for

the blood.”Joe was beginning to yearn forward to

Sunday, when he could go home to hismother for a satisfying meal, of which hewas sharply feeling the need. It was amystery to him how Isom kept up on thatfare, so scant and unsatisfying, but hereasoned that it must be on account ofthere being so little of him but gristle andbone.

Joe looked ahead now to the term of hisbondage under Isom; the prospect gavehim an uneasy concern. He was afraid thatthe hard fare and harder work wouldresult in stunting his growth, like a youngtree that has come to a period of droughtgreen and promising, and stands checkedand blighted, never again to regain thehardy qualities which it needs to raise it

up into the beauty of maturity.The work gave him little concern; he

knew that he could live and put on strengththrough that if he had the proper food. Sothere would have to be a change in thefare, concluded Joe, as he sat there whileIsom discussed the merits of dandelionand jowl. It would have to come veryearly in his term of servitude, too. Thelaw protected the bondman in that, nomatter how far it disregarded his rightsand human necessities in other ways. Sothinking, he pushed away from the tableand left the room.

Isom drank a glass of water, smackedhis dry lips over its excellencies, thegreatest of them in his mind being itscheapness, and followed it by another.

“Thank the Lord for water, anyhow!”

said he.“Yes, there’s plenty of that,” said Ollie

meaningly.Isom was as thick-skinned as he was

sapless. Believing that his penurious codewas just, and his frugality the first virtueof his life, he was not ashamed of histable, and the outcast scraps upon it. Buthe looked at his young wife with a sharpdrawing down of his spiked brows as helingered there a moment, his crackedbrown hands on the edge of the table,which he had clutched as he pushed hischair back. He seemed about to speak arebuke for her extravagance of desire. Thefrown on his face foreshadowed it, butpresently it lifted, and he noddedshrewdly after Joe.

“Give him a couple of eggs mornings

after this,” said he, “they’ve fell off tonext to nothing in price, anyhow. And eatone yourself once in a while, Ollie. I ain’tone of these men that believe a womandon’t need the same fare as a man, once ona while, anyhow.”

His generous outburst did not appear tomove his wife’s gratitude. She did notthank him by word or sign. Isom drankanother glass of water, rubbed hismustache and beard back from his lips inquick, grinding twists of his doubled hand.

“The pie-plant’s comin’ out fast,” saidhe, “and I suppose we might as well eatit–nothing else but humans will eat it–forthere’s no sale for it over in town. Seemslike everybody’s got a patch of itnowadays.

“Well, it’s fillin’, as the old woman

said when she swallowed her thimble, andthat boy Joe he’s going to be a drain on meto feed, I can see that now. I’ll have to fillhim up on something or other, and I guesspie-plant’s about as good as anything. It’scheap.”

“Yes, but it takes sugar,” venturedOllie, rolling some crumbs between herfingers.

“You can use them molasses in the bluebarrel,” instructed Isom.

“It’s about gone,” said she.“Well, put some water in the barrel and

slosh it around–it’ll come out sweetenough for a mess or two.”

Isom got up from the table as he gavethese economic directions, and stood amoment looking down at his wife.

“Don’t you worry over feedin’ thatfeller, Ollie,” he advised. “I’ll managethat. I aim to keep him stout–I never saw astouter feller for his age than Joe–for I’mgoin’ to git a pile of work out of him thenext two years. I saw you lookin’ himover this morning,” said he, approvingly,as he might have sanctioned her criticismof a new horse, “and I could see you waslightin’ on his points. Don’t you think he’sall I said he was?”

“Yes,” she answered, a look ofabstraction in her eyes, her fingers busywith the crumbs on the cloth, “all you saidof him–and more!”

CHAPTER IIITHE SPARK IN THE CLOD

It did not cost Isom so many pangs tominister to the gross appetite of his boundboy as the spring weeks marched intosummer, for gooseberries followedrhubarb, then came green peas andpotatoes from the garden that Ollie hadplanted and tilled under her husband’sorders.

Along in early summer the wormycodlings which fell from the apple-treeshad to be gathered up and fed to the hogsby Ollie, and it was such a season ofblighted fruit that the beasts could not eatthem all. So there was apple sauce,

sweetened with molasses from the newbarrel that Isom broached.

If it had not been so niggardlyunnecessary, the faculty that Isom had forturning the waste ends of the farm intoprofit would have been admirable. But thesuffering attendant upon this economy fellonly upon the human creatures around him.Isom’s beasts wallowed in plenty andgrew fat in the liberality of his hand. Forhimself, it looked as if he had the abilityto extract his living from the bare surfaceof a rock.

All of this green truck was filling, asIsom had said, but far from satisfying to alad in the process of building on suchgenerous plans as Joe. Isom knew that toomuch skim-milk would make a pot-belliedcalf, but he was too stubborn in his rule of

life to admit the cause when he saw thatJoe began to lag at his work, and growsurly and sour.

Isom came in for quick and startlingenlightenment in the middle of a lurid Julymorning, while he and Joe were at workwith one-horse cultivators, “laying by” thecorn. Joe threw his plow down in thefurrow, cast the lines from his shoulders,and declared that he was starving. Hevowed that he would not cultivate anotherrow unless assured, then and there, thatIsom would make an immediateenlargement in the bill-of-fare.

Isom stood beside the handles of hisown cultivator, there being the space often rows between him and Joe, and tookthe lines from around his shoulders, withthe deliberate, stern movement of a man

who is preparing for a fight.“What do you mean by this kind of

capers?” he demanded.“I mean that you can’t go on starving me

like you’ve been doing, and that’s all thereis to it!” said Joe. “The law don’t giveyou the right to do that.”

“Law! Well, I’ll law you,” said Isom,coming forward, his hard body crouched alittle, his lean and guttered neck stretchedas if he gathered himself for a run andjump at the fence. “I’ll feed you whatcomes to my hand to feed you, you onerywhelp! You’re workin’ for me, you belongto me!”

“I’m working for mother–I told you thatbefore,” said Joe. “I don’t owe youanything, Isom, and you’ve got to feed mebetter, or I’ll walk away and leave you,

that’s what I’ll do!”“Yes, I see you walkin’ away!” said

Isom, plucking at his already turned-upsleeve. “I’m goin’ to give you a tannin’right now, and one you’ll not forget toyour dyin’ day!”

At that moment Isom doubtless intendedto carry out his threat. Here was a piece ofhis own property, as much his property ashis own wedded wife, defying him, facinghim with extravagant demands, threateningto stop work unless more bountifully fed!Truly, it was a state of insurrection suchas no upright citizen like Isom Chasecould allow to go by unreproved andunquieted by castigation of his hand.

“You’d better stop where you are,”advised Joe.

He reached down and righted his plow.

Isom could see the straining of the leadersin his lean wrist as he stood gripping thehandle, and the thought passed through himthat Joe intended to wrench it off and useit as a weapon against him.

Isom had come but a few steps from hisplow. He stopped, looking down at thefurrow as if struggling to hold himselfwithin bounds. Still looking at the earth,he went back to his implement.

“I’ll put you where the dogs won’t biteyou if you ever threaten my life ag’in!”said he.

“I didn’t threaten your life, Isom, Ididn’t say a word,” said Joe.

“A motion’s a threat,” said Isom.“But I’ll tell you now,” said Joe,

quietly, lowering his voice and leaning

forward a little, “you’d better think a longtime before you ever start to lay hands onme again, Isom. This is twice. The nexttime––”

Joe set his plow in the furrow with apush that sent the swingle-tree knockingagainst the horse’s heels. The animalstarted out of the doze into which it hadfallen while the quarrel went on. Joegrinned, thinking how even Isom’s dumbcreatures took every advantage of him thatopportunity offered. But he left hiswarning unfinished as for words.

There was no need to say more, forIsom was cowed. He was quaking downto the tap-root of his salt-hardened soul,but he tried to put a different face on it ashe took up his plow.

“I don’t want to cripple you, and lay

you up,” he said. “If I was to begin on youonce I don’t know where I’d leave off. Gitback to your work, and don’t give me anymore of your sass!”

“I’ll go back to work when you give meyour word that I’m to have meat and eggs,butter and milk, and plenty of it,” said Joe.

“I orto tie you up to a tree and lashyou!” said Isom, jerking angrily at hishorse. “I don’t know what ever made mepity your mother and keep her out of thepoorhouse by takin’ in a loafer like you!”

“Well, if you’re sick of the bargain goand tell mother. Maybe she is, too,” Joesuggested.

“No, you’ll not git out of it now, you’llstick right here and put in your time, afterall the trouble and expense I’ve been putto teachin’ you what little you know about

farmin’,” Isom declared.He took up his plow and jerked his

horse around into the row. Joe stoodwatching him, with folded arms, plainlywith no intention of following. Isomlooked back over his shoulder.

“Git to work!” he yelled.“You didn’t promise me what I asked,”

said Joe, quietly.“No, and that ain’t all!” returned Isom.The tall corn swallowed Isom and his

horse as the sea swallowed Pharaoh andhis host. When he returned to the end ofthe field where the rebellion had brokenout, he found Joe sitting on the beam of hisplow and the well-pleased horse asleep inthe sun.

Isom said nothing, but plunged away

into the tall corn. When he came back nexttime Joe was unhitching his horse.

“Now, look a-here, Joe,” Isom began,in quite a changed tone, “don’t you fly upand leave an old man in the lurch thatway.”

“You know what I said,” Joe told him.“I’ll give in to you, Joe; I’ll give you

everything you ask for, and more,” yieldedIsom, seeing that Joe intended to leave.“I’ll put it in writing if you want me toJoe–I’ll do anything to keep you, son.You’re the only man I ever had on thisplace I wouldn’t rather see goin’ thancomin’.”

Isom’s word was satisfactory to Joe,and he returned to work.

That turned out a day to be remembered

in the household of Isom Chase. If he hadcome into the kitchen at noon with all thehoarded savings of his years and thrownthem down before her eyes, Ollie couldnot have been more surprised andmystified than she was when he appearedfrom the smokehouse carrying a large ham.

After his crafty way in a tight pinchIsom turned necessity into profit bymaking out that the act was free andvoluntary, with the pleasure and comfortof his pretty little wife underlying andprompting it all. He grinned as if he wouldbreak his beard when he put the ham downon the table and cut it in two at the middlejoint as deftly as a butcher.

“I’ve been savin’ that ham up for you,Ollie. I think it’s just about right now,”said he.

“That was nice of you, Isom,” said she,moved out of her settled taciturnity by hislittle show of thought for her, “I’ve beenjust dying for a piece of ham!”

“Well, fry us a big skilletful of it, andsome eggs along with it, and fetch up acrock of sweet milk, and stir it up creamand all,” directed Isom.

Poor Ollie, overwhelmed by thesuddenness and freedom of thisgenerosity, stood staring at him, her eyesround, her lips open. Isom could not havestudied a more astounding surprise. If hehad hung diamonds on her neck, rubies onher wrists, and garnets in her hair, shecould quicker have found her tongue.

“It’s all right, Ollie, it’s all right,” saidIsom pettishly. “We’re going to have thesethings from now on. Might as well eat

’em, and git some of the good of what weproduce, as let them city people fatten off’em.”

Isom went out with that, and Ollieattacked the ham with the butcher knife ina most savage and barbarous fashion.

Isom’s old wife must have shifted in hergrave at sight of the prodigal repast whichOllie soon spread on the kitchen table.Granting, of course, that people in theirgraves are cognizant of such things, which,according to this old standard ofcomparison in human amazement, theymust be.

But whether the old wife turned over orlay quiescent in the place where they puther when they folded her tired old handsupon her shrunken breast, it isindisputable that the new one eased the

pangs of many a hungry day in thatbountiful meal. And Joe’s face glowedfrom the fires of it, and his eyes sparkledin the satisfaction of his long-abusedstomach.

Next day a more startling thinghappened. Twice each week there passedthrough the country, from farm to farm, abutcher’s wagon from Shelbyville, thecounty-seat, a few miles away. IsomChase never had been a customer of thefresh meat purveyor, and the travelingmerchant, knowing from the old man’snotoriety that he never could expect him tobecome one, did not waste time instopping at his house. His surprise wasalmost apoplectic when Isom stopped himand bought a soup-bone, and it almostbecame fatal when the order was made a

standing one. It was such a remarkableevent that the meat man told about it atevery stop. It went round the country likethe news of a wedding or a death.

Isom seemed to be satisfied with thenew dietary regulations, for hams werecheap that summer, anyhow, and theseason was late. Besides that, the morethat Joe ate the harder he worked. Itseemed a kind of spontaneous effort on thelad’s part, as if it was necessary to burnup the energy in surplus of the demand ofhis growing bone and muscle.

Ollie had picked up and brightenedunder the influence of ham and milk also,although it was all a foolish yielding toappetite, as Isom very well knew. He hadbeaten that weakness in himself to deathwith the club of abstinence; for himself he

could live happily on what he had beenaccustomed to eating for thirty years andmore. But as long as the investment of hamand milk paid interest in kitchen as wellas field, Isom was grudgingly willing tosee them consumed.

Ollie’s brightening was only physical.In her heart she was as gloomily hopelessas before. After his first flash of fire shehad not found much comfort or hope ofcomradeship in the boy, Joe Newbolt. Hewas so respectful in her presence, and sobashful, it seemed, that it almost made heruncomfortable to have him around.

Man that he was in stature, he appearedno more than a timid boy in understanding,and her little advances of friendliness, herlittle appeals for sympathy, all glancedfrom the unconscious armor of his youthful

innocence and reserve. She was forced toput him down after many weeks as merelystupid, and she sighed when she saw thehope of comradeship in her hard lot fadeout and give way to a feeling borderingupon contempt.

On Sunday evenings, after he came backfrom visiting his mother, Ollie frequentlysaw Joe reading the little brown Biblewhich he had carried with him when hecame. She had taken it up one day whilemaking Joe’s bed. It brought back to herthe recollection of her Sunday-schooldays, when she was all giggles and frills;but there was no association of religioustraining to respond to its appeal. Shewondered what Joe saw in it as she put itback on the box beside his bed.

It chanced that she met Joe the next

morning after she had made that shortincursion between the brown covers of hisbook, as she was returning from the welland he was setting out for the hog-lotbetween two pails of sour swill. He stoodout of the path to let her pass withoutstepping into the long, dewy grass. She puther bucket down with a gasp of weariness,and looked up into his eyes with a smile.

The buckets were heavy in Joe’s hands;he stood them down, meeting her friendlyadvances with one of his rare smiles,which came as seldom to his face, thoughtshe, as a hummingbird to the honeysuckleon the kitchen porch.

“Whew, this is going to be a scorcher!”said she.

“I believe it is,” he agreed.From the opposite sides of the path

their eyes met. Both smiled again, and feltbetter for it.

“My, but you’re a mighty religious boy,aren’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“Religious?” said he, looking at her inserious surprise.

She nodded girlishly. The sun, longslanting through the cherry-trees, fell onher hair, loosely gathered up after hersleep, one free strand on her cheek.

“No, I’m not religious.”“Well, you read the Bible all the time.”“Oh, well!” said he, stooping as if to

lift his pails.“Why?” she wanted to know.Joe straightened his long back without

his pails. Beyond the orchard the hogswere clamoring shrilly for their morning

draught; from the barn there came thesound of Isom’s voice, speaking harshly tothe beasts.

“Well, because I like it, for one thing,”said he, “and because it’s the only bookI’ve got here, for another.”

“My, I think it’s awful slow!” said she.“Do you?” he inquired, as if interested

in her likes and dislikes at last.“I’d think you’d like other books

better–detective stories and that kind,” sheventured. “Didn’t you ever read any otherbook?”

“Some few,” he replied, a reflection asof amusement in his eyes, which shethought made them look old andunderstanding and wise. “But I’ve alwaysread the Bible. It’s one of the books that

never seems to get old to you.”“Did you ever read True as Steel?”“No, I never did.”“Or Tempest and Sunshine?”He shook his head.“Oh-h,” said she, fairly lifting herself

by the long breath which she drew, likethe inhalation of a pleasant recollection,“you don’t know what you’ve missed!They are lovely!”

“Well, maybe I’d like them, too.”He stooped again, and this time came

up with his pails.“I’m glad you’re not religious,

anyhow,” she sighed, as if heaving atrouble off her heart.

“Are you?” he asked, turning to herwonderingly.

“Yes; religious people are so glum,”she explained. “I never saw one of themlaugh.”

“There are some that way,” said Joe.“They seem to be afraid they’ll go to hellif they let the Almighty hear them laugh.Mother used to be that way when she firstgot her religion, but she’s outgrowing itnow.”

“The preachers used to scare me todeath,” she declared. “If I could hearsome comfortable religion I might take upwith it, but it seems to me thateverybody’s so sad after they get it. Idon’t know why.”

Joe put down the pails again. Early asthe day was, it was hot, and he wassweating. He pushed his hat back from hisforehead. It was like lifting a shadow from

his serious young face. She smiled.“A person generally gets the kind of

religion that he hears preached,” said he,“and most of it you hear is kind of heavy,like bread without rising. I’ve never seena laughing preacher yet.”

“There must be some, though,” shereflected.

“I hope so,” said Joe.“I’m glad you’re not full of that kind of

religion,” said she. “For a long time Ithought you were.”

“You did? Why?”“Oh, because–” said she.Her cheek was toward him; he saw that

it was red, like the first tint of a cherry.She snatched up her bucket then and spedalong the path.

Joe walked on a little way, stopped,turned, and looked after her. He saw theflick of her skirt as her nimble heels flewup the three steps of the kitchen porch, andhe wondered why she was glad that hewas not religious, and why she had goneaway like that, so fast. The pigs wereclamoring, shriller, louder. It was no hourfor a youth who had not yet wetted his feetin manhood’s stream to stand looking aftera pair of heels and try to figure out a thinglike that.

As Joe had said, he was not religious,according to catechisms and creeds. Hecould not have qualified in the leastexacting of the many faiths. All thereligion that he had was of his ownmaking, for his mother’s was altogethertoo ferocious in its punishments and too

dun and foggy in its rewards for him.He read the Bible, and he believed

most of it. There was as much religion,said he, in the Commandments as a manneeded; a man could get on with that muchvery well. Beyond that he did not trouble.

He read the adventures of David andthe lamentations of Jeremiah, and the loftyexhortations of Isaiah for the sonority ofthe phrasing, the poetry and beauty. For hehad not been sated by many tales norblunted by many books. If he couldmanage to live according to theCommandments, he sometimes told hismother, he would not feel uneasy over abetter way to die.

But he was not giving this matter muchthought as he emptied the swill-pails tothe chortling hogs. He was thinking about

the red in Ollie’s cheeks, like the breast ofa bright bird seen through the leaves, andof her quick flight up the path. It was anew Ollie that he had discovered thatmorning, one unknown and unspoken tobefore that day. But why had her facegrown red that way, he wondered? Whyhad she run away?

And Ollie, over her smoking pan on thekitchen stove, was thinking that somethingmight be established in the way ofcomradeship between herself and thebound boy, after all. It took him a longtime to get acquainted, she thought; but hisfriendship might be all the more stable forthat. There was comfort in it; as sheworked she smiled.

There was no question of the need inwhich Ollie stood of friendship, sympathy,

and kind words. Joe had been in thathouse six months, and in that time he hadwitnessed more pain than he believed onesmall woman’s heart could bear. While hewas not sure that Isom ever struck hiswife, he knew that he tortured her inendless combinations of cruelty, andpierced her heart with a thousand studiedpangs. Often, when the house was still andIsom was asleep, he heard her moaningand sobbing, her head on the kitchen table.

These bursts of anguish were not thesudden gusts of a pettish woman’spassion, but the settled sorrow of one whosuffered without hope. Many a time Joetiptoed to the bottom of the staircase in hisbare feet and looked at her, the moonlightdim in the cheerless kitchen, her head adark blotch upon the whiteness of her

arms, bowed there in her grief. Often helonged to go to her with words of comfortand let her know that there was one atleast who pitied her hard fate and saddisillusionment.

In those times of tribulation Joe felt thatthey could be of mutual help and comfortif they could bring themselves to speak,for he suffered also the pangs ofimprisonment and the longings for libertyin that cruel house of bondage. Yet healways turned and went softly, almostbreathlessly, back to his bed, leaving herto sob and cry alone in the struggle of herhopeless sorrow.

It was a harder matter to keep his handsfrom the gristly throat of grim old IsomChase, slumbering unfeelingly in his bedwhile his young wife shredded her heart

between the burr-stones of his cruel mill.Joe had many an hour of struggle withhimself, lying awake, his hot templesstreaming sweat, his eyes staring at theribs of the roof.

During those months Joe had set andhardened. The muscles had thickened overhis chest and arms; his neck was losing thelong scragginess of youth; his fingers werefirm-jointed in his broadening hands. Heknew that Isom Chase was no match forhim, man to man.

But, for all his big body and greatstrength, he was only a boy in his sense ofjustice, in his hot, primitive desire tolunge out quickly and set themaladjustments of that household straight.He did not know that there was a thing asold as the desires of men at the bottom of

Ollie’s sorrow, nor understand the futilityof chastisement in the case of Isom Chase.

Isom was as far as ever from his hopeof a son or heir of any description–although he could not conceive thepossibility of fathering a female child–andhis bitter reproaches fell on Ollie, as theyhad fallen upon and blasted the womanwho had trudged that somber coursebefore her into the grateful shelter of thegrave. It was a thing which Ollie could notdiscuss with young Joe, a thing which onlya sympathetic mother might have lightenedthe humiliation of or eased with tendercounsel.

Isom, seeing that the book of his familymust close with him, expelled the smallgrain of tenderness that his dry heart hadheld for his wife at the beginning, and

counted her now nothing but another backto bear his burdens. He multiplied hertasks, and snarled and snapped, and morethan once in those work-crowded autumndays, when she had lagged in herweariness, he had lifted his hand to strike.The day would come when that threatenedblow would fall; of that Ollie had noconsoling doubt. She did not feel that shewould resent it, save in an addition to heraccumulated hate, for hard labor by dayand tears by night break the spirit until theflints of cruelty no longer wake its fire.

Day after day, as he worked by the sideof Isom in the fields, Joe had it foremostin his mind to speak to him of his unjusttreatment of his wife. Yet he hung back outof the Oriental conception which he held,due to his Scriptural reading, of that

relationship between woman and man. Aman’s wife was his property in a certain,broad sense. It would seem unwarrantedby any measure of excess short of murderfor another to interfere between them. Joeheld his peace, therefore, but with internalferment and unrest.

It was in those days of Joe’sdisquietude that Ollie first spoke to him ofIsom’s oppressions. The opportunity fell ashort time after their early morningmeeting in the path. Isom had gone to townwith a load of produce, and Joe and Olliehad the dinner alone for the first timesince he had been under that roof.

Ollie’s eyes were red and swollen fromrecent weeping, her face was mottled fromher tears. Much trouble had made hercareless of late of her prettiness, and now

she was disheveled, her apron awryaround her waist, her hair mussed, herwhole aspect one of slovenly disregard.Her depression was so great that Joe wasmoved to comfort her.

“You’ve got a hard time of it,” said he.“If there’s anything I can do to help you Iwish you’d let me know.”

Ollie slung a dish carelessly upon thetable, and followed it with Joe’s coffee,which she slopped half out into the saucer.

“Oh, I feel just like I don’t care anymore!” said she, her lips trembling, tearsstarting again in her irritated eyes. “I gettreatment here that no decent man wouldgive a dog!”

Joe felt small and young in Ollie’spresence, due to the fact that she wasolder by a year at least than himself.

That feeling of littleness had been oneof his peculiarities as long as he couldremember when there were others aboutolder than himself, and supposed from thatreason to be graver and wiser. It probablyhad its beginning in Joe’s starting outrather spindling and undersized, and notgrowing much until he was ten orthereabout, when he took a sudden shootahead, like a water-sprout on an apple-tree.

And then he always had regardedmatrimony as a state of gravity andmaturity, into which the young andunsophisticated did not venture. Thisfeeling seemed to place between them inJoe’s mind a boundless gulf, across whichhe could offer her only the sympathy andassistance of a boy. There was nothing in

his mind of sympathy from an equality ofyears and understanding, only thechivalric urging of succor to theoppressed.

“It’s a low-down way for a man to treata woman, especially his wife,” said Joe,his indignation mounting at sight of hertears.

“Yes, and he’d whip you, too, if hedared to do it,” said she, sitting in Isom’splace at the end of the table, where shecould look across into Joe’s face. “I cansee that in him when he watches you eat.”

“I hope he’ll never try it,” said Joe.“You’re not afraid of him?”“Maybe not,” admitted Joe.“Then why do you say you hope he’ll

never try it?” she pressed.

“Oh, because I do,” said Joe, bendingover his plate.

“I’d think you’d be glad if he did try it,so you could pay him off for hismeanness,” she said.

Joe looked across at her seriously.“Did he slap you this morning?” he

asked.Ollie turned her head, making no reply.“I thought I heard you two scuffling

around in the kitchen as I came to theporch with the milk,” said he.

“Don’t tell it around!” she appealed,her eyes big and terrified at therecollection of what had passed. “No, hedidn’t hit me, Joe; but he choked me. Hegrabbed me by the throat and shook me–his old hand’s as hard as iron!”

Joe had noticed that she wore ahandkerchief pinned around her neck. Asshe spoke she put her hand to her throat,and her tears gushed again.

“That’s no way for a man to treat hiswife,” said Joe indignantly.

“If you knew everything–if you kneweverything!” said she.

Joe, being young, and feeling younger,could not see how she was straining tocome to a common footing ofunderstanding with him, to reach a planewhere his sympathy would be a balm. Hecould not realize that her orbit of thoughtwas similar to his own, that she wasnearer a mate for him, indeed, than forhairy-limbed, big-jointed Isom Chase,with his grizzled hair and beard.

“It was all over a little piece of ribbon

I bought yesterday when I took the eggs upto the store,” she explained. “I got twocents a dozen more than I expected forthem, and I put the extra money into aribbon–only half a yard. Here it is,” saidshe, taking it from the cupboard; “I wantedit to wear on my neck.”

She held it against her swathed throatwith a little unconscious play of coquetry,a sad smile on her lips.

“It’s nice, and becoming to you, too,”said Joe, speaking after the manner of thecountryside etiquette on such things.

“Isom said I ought to have put themoney into a package of soda, and when Iwouldn’t fuss with him about it, that madehim madder and madder. And then he–he–did that!”

“You wouldn’t think Isom would mind

ten cents,” said Joe.“He’d mind one cent,” said she in bitter

disdain. “One cent–huh! he’d mind oneegg! Some people might not believe it, butI tell you, Joe, that man counts the eggsevery day, and he weighs every pound ofbutter I churn. If I wanted to, even, Icouldn’t hide away a pound of butter or adozen of eggs any more than I could hideaway that stove.”

“But I don’t suppose Isom means to behard on you or anybody,” said Joe. “It’shis way to be close and stingy, and he maydo better by you one of these days.”

“No, he’ll never do any better,” shesighed. “If anything, he’ll do worse–if hecan do any worse. I look for him to strikeme next!”

“He’d better not try that when I’m

around!” said Joe hotly.“What would you do to him, Joe?” she

asked, her voice lowered almost to awhisper. She leaned eagerly toward himas she spoke, a flush on her face.

“Well, I’d stop him, I guess,” said Joedeliberately, as if he had considered hiswords. As he spoke he reached down forhis hat, which he always placed on thefloor beside his chair when he took hismeals.

“If there was a soul in this world thatcared for me–if I had anywhere to go, I’dleave him this hour!” declared Ollie, herface burning with the hate of heroppressor.

Joe got up from his chair and left thetable; she rose with him and came aroundthe side. He stopped on his way to the

door, looking at her with awkwardbashfulness as she stood there flushed andbrilliant in her tossed state, scarcely ayard between them.

“But there’s nobody in the world thatcares for me,” she complainedsorrowfully.

Joe was lifting his hat to his head.Midway he stayed his hand, his face blankwith surprise.

“Why, you’ve got your mother, haven’tyou?” he asked.

“Mother!” she repeated scornfully.“She’d drive me back to him; she wascrazy for me to marry him, for she thinksI’ll get all his property and money whenhe dies.”

“Well, he may die before long,”

consoled Joe.“Die!” said she; and again, “Die! He’ll

never die!”She leaned toward him suddenly,

bringing her face within a few inches ofhis. Her hot breath struck him on thecheek; it moved the clustered hair at histemple and played warm in the doorwayof his ear.

“He’ll never die,” she repeated in low,quick voice, which fell to a whisper in theend, “unless somebody he’s tramped onand ground down and cursed and drivenputs him out of the way!”

Joe stood looking at her with big eyes,dead to that feminine shock which wouldhave tingled a mature man to the marrow,insensible to the strong effort she wasmaking to wake him and draw him to her.

He drew back from her, a little frightened,a good deal ashamed, troubled, andmystified.

“Why, you don’t suppose anybodywould do that?” said he.

Ollie turned from him, the fire sinkingdown in her face.

“Oh, no; I don’t suppose so,” she said,a little distant and cold in her manner.

She began gathering up the dishes.Joe stood there for a little while,

looking at her hands as they flew fromplate to plate like white butterflies, as ifsomething had stirred in him that he didnot understand. Presently he went his wayto take up his work, no more wordspassing between them.

Ollie, from under her half raised lids,

watched him go, tiptoeing swiftly afterhim to the door as he went down the pathtoward the well. Her breath was quickupon her lips; her breast was agitated. Ifthat slow hunk could be warmed with aman’s passions and desires; if she couldwake him; if she could fling fire into hisheart! He was only a boy, the man in himjust showing its strong face behind thatmask of wild, long hair. It lay therewaiting to move him in ways yet strange tohis experience. If she might send herwhisper to that still slumbering force andcharge it into life a day before its time!

She stood with hand upon the door,trailing him with her eyes as he passed onto the barn. She felt that she had all butreached beyond the insulation of hisadolescence in that burning moment when

her breath was on his cheek; she knew thatthe wood, even that hour, was warm underthe fire. What might a whisper now, asmile then, a kindness, a word, a hand laidsoftly upon his hair, work in the days tocome?

She turned back to her work, her mindstirred out of its sluggish rut, the swirl ofher new thoughts quickening in her blood.Isom Chase would not die; he would liveon and on, harder, drier, stingier year byyear, unless a bolt from heaven witheredhim or the hand of man laid him low. Whatmight come to him, he deserved, even theanguish of death with a strangling cordabout his neck; even the strong blow of anax as he slept on his bed, snatching fromhim the life that he had debased of all itsbeauty, without the saving chance of

repentance in the end.She had thought of doing it with her

own hand; a hundred ways she hadplanned and contrived it in her mind,goaded on nearer and nearer to it by hisinhuman oppressions day by day. But herheart had recoiled from it as a task for thehand of a man. If a man could be raised upto it, a man who had suffered servitudewith her, a man who would strike for thedouble vengeance, and the love of her inhis heart!

She went to the door again, gripping thestove-lid lifter in her little hand, as thejangle of harness came to her when Joepassed with the team. He rode by towardthe field, the sun on his broad back,slouching forward as his heavy horsesplodded onward. The man in him was

asleep yet, yes; but there was a pit of fireas deep as a volcano’s throat in hisslumbering soul.

If she could lift him up to it, if she couldpluck the heart out of him and warm it inher own hot breast, then there would standthe man for her need. For Isom Chasewould not die. He would live on and on,like a worm in wood, until some stronghand fed him to the flames.

CHAPTER IVA STRANGER AT THE GATE

Rain overtook Isom as he was drivinghome from town that evening, and rainwas becoming one of the few things in thisworld from which he would flee. Itaggravated the rheumatism in his knottedtoes and stabbed his knee-joints with awl-piercing pains.

For upward of forty-five years Isomhad been taking the rains as they camewherever they might find him. It made himgrowl to turn tail to them now, and trot toshelter from every shower like a hen.

So he was in no sweet humor as hedrew near his own barn-yard gate with the

early autumn downpour already finding itsway through his coat. It came to him as heapproached that portal of his domain thatif he had a son the boy would be there,with the gate flung wide, to help him. Itwas only one of the thousand usefuloffices which a proper boy could fillaround that place, thought he; but hiswives had conspired in barrenness againsthim; no son ever would come to cheer hisdeclining days.

Even if he had the kind of a wife that aman should have, reflected he, she wouldbe watching; she would come through rainand hail, thunder and wild blast, to openthe gate and ease him through without thattroublesome stop.

Matrimony had been a profitlessinvestment for him, said he in bitterness.

His first wife had lived long and eatenravenously, and had worn out shoes andcalico slips, and his second, a poorunwilling hand, was not worth her keep.

So, with all this sour summing up of hiswasted ventures in his mind, and the coldrain spitting through his years-worn coat,Isom was in no humor to debate the waywith another man when it came to enteringinto his own property through his ownwide gate.

But there was another man in the road,blocking it with his top-buggy, one footout on the step, his head thrust around theside of the hood with inquiring look, as ifhe also felt that there should be somebodyat hand to open the gate and let him passwithout muddying his feet.

“Ho!” called Isom uncivilly, hailing the

stranger as he pulled up his team, the endof his wagon-tongue threatening the hoodof the buggy; “what do you want here?”

The stranger put his head out a bitfarther and twisted his neck to lookbehind. He did not appear to know Isom,any more than Isom knew him, but therewas the surliness of authority, theinhospitality of ownership, in Isom’smien, and it was the business of the man inthe buggy to know men at a glance. Hesaw that Isom was the landlord, and hegave him a nod and smile.

“I’d like to get shelter for my horse andbuggy for the night, and lodging formyself,” said he.

“Well, if you pay for it I reckon you cangit it,” returned Isom. “Pile out there andopen that gate.”

That was the way that Curtis Morgan,advance agent of the divine light ofliterature, scout of knowledge, torch-bearer of enlightenment into the darkplaces of ignorance, made his way into thehouse of Isom Chase, and found himself indue time at supper in the low-ceiledkitchen, with pretty Ollie, like a brightbead in a rusty purse, bringing hot biscuitsfrom the oven and looking him over with asmile.

Curtis Morgan was a slim and limberman, with a small head and a big mouth, amost flexible and plastic organ. Morganwore a mustache which was cut back tostubs, giving his face a grubby look aboutthe nose. His light hair was short andthick, curling in little love-locks about hisears.

Morgan sold books. He would put youin a set of twenty-seven volumes of theHistory of the World for fifty-threedollars, or he would open his valise andsell you a ready-reckoner for six bits. Hec a r r i e d Household Compendiums ofUseful Knowledge and Medical Advisers;he had poultry guides and horse books,and books on bees, and if he couldn’t sellyou one thing he would sell you another,unless you were a worm, or a greased pig,and able, by some extraordinary natural orartificial attribute, to slip out of his hands.

As has been the case with many agreater man before him, Morgan’s mostprofitable business was done in hissmallest article of trade. In the countrywhere men’s lives were counted too shortfor all the work they had to do, they didn’t

have any time for histories of the worldand no interest in them, anyhow. Theworld was to them no more than theycould see of it, and the needs of their livesand their longings–save in someadventurer who developed among themnow and then–went no farther than thelimit of their vision.

The ready-reckoner was, therefore, themoney-maker for Morgan, who seemed tocarry an inexhaustible supply. It told afarm-hand what his pay amounted to bydays and hours down to the fraction of acent; it told the farmer what the interest onhis note would be; it showed how to findout how many bushels of corn there werein a crib without measuring the contents,and how many tons of hay a stackcontained; it told how to draw up a will

and write a deed, and make liniment forthe mumps.

Isom drew all this information out ofhis guest at supper, and it did not requiremuch effort to set the sap flowing.

Morgan talked to Isom and looked atOllie; he asked Joe a question, and cockedhis eye on Ollie’s face as if he expected tofind the answer there; he pronouncedshallow platitudes of philosophy aimingthem at Isom, but looking at Ollie forapproval or dissent.

Isom appeared to take rather kindly tohim, if his unusual volubility indicated thestate of his feelings. He asked Morgan agreat deal about his business, and how heliked it, and whether he made any moneyat it. Morgan leaned back on the hinderlegs of his chair, having finished his

supper, and fumbled in his waistcoatpocket for his goose-quill pick. Hewinked at Isom on the footing of oneshrewd man to another as he applied thequill to his big white teeth.

“Well, I pay my way,” said he.There was a great deal back of the

simple words; there was an oily self-satisfaction, and there was a vast amountof portentous reserve. Isom liked it; henodded, a smile moving his beard. It didhim good to meet a man who could getbehind the sham skin of the world, andtake it by the heels, and turn it a stunningfall.

Next morning, the sun being out againand the roads promising to dry speedily,Morgan hitched up and prepared to set outon his flaming path of enlightenment.

Before going he made a proposal to Isomto use that place as headquarters for aweek or two, while he covered thecountry lying about.

Anything that meant profit to Isomlooked good and fitting in his eyes. Thefeeding of another mouth would entaillittle expense, and so the bargain wasstruck. Morgan was to have his breakfastand supper each day, and provender forhis horse, at the rate of four dollars aweek, payable in advance.

Morgan ran over his compendiums andhorse books, but Isom was firm for cash;he suggested at least one ready-reckoneron account, but Isom had no need of that.Isom could guess to a hundredweight thecontents of a stack of hay, and there neverwas a banker in this world that could

outfigure him on interest. He had no moreneed for a ready-reckoner than a centipedehas of legs. Morgan, seeing that nothingbut money would talk there, produced theweek’s charge on the spot, and drove offto his day’s canvassing well satisfied.

Morgan had not been a paying guest inthat house two days before the somberdomestic tragedy that it roofed was asplain to him as if he had it printed andbound, and in his valise along with thecompendiums of his valuable assortment.

He found it pleasant to return to thefarm early of an afternoon and sit in thekitchen door with his pipe, and watchOllie’s face clear of clouds as he talked.Consolation and cheer were strangers toher heart; it required no words from her totell Morgan that.

Her blushing gratitude for small officesof assistance, such as fetching a pail ofwater or a basket of garden greens, repaidMorgan all that he missed in sales bycutting short his business day just for thepleasure of returning and talking with her.

Isom was too self-centered, andunconscious of his wife’s uncommonprettiness, to be jealous or suspicious ofMorgan’s late goings or early returns. If aman wanted to pay him four dollars aweek for the pleasure of carrying upwater, cutting stove-wood or feeding thecalves, the fool was welcome to do it aslong as his money held.

So it was that old Isom, blind and deafand money-mad, set with his own handand kindled with his own breath, theinsidious spark which trustful fools before

his day have seen leap into flame and stripthem of honor before the eyes of men.

Morgan made a long stay of it in thatsection, owing to the density of thepopulation, he claimed, and the proximityof several villages which he could reachin a few miles’ drive. He was in his thirdweek when Isom was summoned on juryservice to the county seat.

Twelve dollars had passed from thebook agent’s hands into Isom’s, and Isomgrinned over it as the easiest money that itever had been his pleasure to collect. Heput it away with his savings, which neverhad earned interest for a banker, andturned the care of the farm over to Joe.

Jury service at the county seat was anuncertain thing. It might last a day, andthen it might tie a man up for two or three

weeks, but Isom was able to leave homewith a more comfortable feeling than everbefore. He had a trustworthy servant toleave behind him, one in whose handseverything would be safe, under whoseenergy and conscientious effort nothingwould drag or fall behind.

Isom felt that he could very well affordto spread on a little soft-soap, as flatterywas provincially called, and invest Joewith a greater sense of his responsibility,if possible. When occasion required, Isomcould rise to flattery as deftly as the bestof them. It was an art at which his tonguewas wonderfully facile, considering thefact that he mingled so seldom with men inthe outside doings of life. His wits had nofoil to whet against and grow sharp, savethe hard substance of his own inflexible

nature, for he was born with that shrewdfaculty for taking men “on the blind side,”as they used to call that trick in Missouri.

“I’m turnin’ the whole farm over to youto look after like it was your own whileI’m away,” said he, “and I’m doing it withthe feeling that it’s in worthy hands. Iknow you’re not the boy to shirk on mewhen my back’s turned, for you nevertried to do it to my face. You stand by me,Joe, and I’ll stand by you; you’ll neverlose anything by it in the end.

“I may be a crabbed old feller once in awhile, and snarl around some, but mybark’s worse than my bite, you know thatby this time. So I’ll put everything in yourhands, with a feeling that it’ll be lookedafter just the same as if I was here.”

“I’ll do the best I can by you,”

promised Joe, his generous heart warmingto Isom a little in spite of past indignities,and the fact that Joe knew very well theold man’s talk was artful pretense.

“I know you will,” said Isom, pattinghis shoulder in fatherly approbation. “Incase I’m held over there a week, you keepyour eye on that agent, and don’t let himstay here a day overtime without anotherweek’s board in advance.”

“I’ll attend to him,” promised Joe.Isom’s hand had lingered a minute on

Joe’s shoulder while he talked, and theold man’s satisfaction over the depth ofmuscle that he felt beneath it was great.He stood looking Joe over with quick-shifting, calculating eyes, measuring himin every part, from flank to hock, like afarrier. He was gratified to see how Joe

had filled out in the past six months. If hehad paid for a colt and been delivered adraft-horse, his surprise would not havebeen more pleasant.

As it was, he had bargained for theservices of a big-jointed, long-boned lad,and found himself possessed of a man.The fine part of it was that he had nearlytwo years more of service at ten dollars amonth coming from Joe, who was worthtwenty of any man’s money, and couldcommand it, just as he stood. That wasbusiness, that was bargaining.

Isom’s starved soul distended over it;the feeling was warm in his veins, like agill of home-made brandy. He had him,bound body and limb, tied in a cornerfrom which he could not escape, to sendand call, to fetch and carry, for the better

part of two good, profitable years.As Isom rode away he rubbed his dry,

hard hands above his saddle-horn, feelingmore comfortable than he had felt formany a day. He gloated over the excellentbargain that he had made with the WidowNewbolt; he grinned at the roots of his oldrusty beard. If ever a man poked himselfin the ribs in the excess of self-felicitation, Isom Chase did it as he rodealong on his old buckskin horse thatautumn morning, with the sun just liftingover the hill.

It was an excellent thing, indeed, for apatriot to serve his country once in awhile on a jury, thought Isom, especiallywhen that patriot had been shrewd in hisdealings with the widow and orphan, andhad thus secured himself against loss at

home while his country called him abroad.Jury duty was nothing but a pleasantseason of relaxation in such case.

There would be mileage and per diem,and the state would bear the expense oflodging and meals in the event of his beingdrawn out of the panel to serve in somelong criminal case. Mileage and per diemwould come in very nicely, in addition tothe four dollars a week that loose-handedbook agent was paying. For the first timein his life when called upon for juryservice, Isom went to meet it with nosourness in his face. Mileage and perdiem, but best of all, a great strong manleft at home in his place; one to be trustedin and depended upon; one who would doboth his master’s work and his own.

Joe had no such pleasant cogitations to

occupy his mind as he bent his long backto assume the double burden when Isomwent away. For many days he had beenunquiet with a strange, indefinable unrest,like the yearn of a wild-fowl when theseason comes for it to wing away tosouthern seas. Curtis Morgan was behindthat strong, wild feeling; he was the urgeof it, and the fuel of its fire.

Why it was so, Joe did not know,although he struggled in his reason tomake it clear. For many days, almost fromthe first, Joe had felt that Morgan shouldnot be in that house; that his pretext oflingering there on business was a blindtoo thin to deceive anybody but Isom.Anybody could deceive Isom if he wouldwork his scheme behind a dollar. It was ashield beyond which Isom could not see,

and had no wish to inquire.Joe did not like those late starts which

Morgan made of a morning, long after heand Isom were in the field, nor the earlyhomings, long before they came in to dothe chores. Joe left the house each morningwith reluctance, after Isom’s departure,lingering over little things, finding hithertoundiscovered tasks to keep him about inthe presence of Ollie, and to throw himbetween her and the talkative boarder,who seemed always hanging at her heels.Since their talk at dinner on the day thatMorgan came, Joe had felt a new and deepinterest in Ollie, and held for her anunaccountable feeling of friendliness.

This feeling had been fed, for a fewdays, by Ollie, who found odd minutes totalk with him as she had not talked before,

and by small attentions and kindnesses.She had greeted him in the morning withsmiles, where her face once wore the sadmask of misery; and she had touched hishand sometimes, with encouraging orcommending caress.

Joe had yielded to her immediately theunreserved loyalty of his unsophisticatedsoul. The lot of his bondage was lightenedby this new tie, the prospect of theunserved term under Isom was not soforbidding now. And now this fellowMorgan had stepped between them, insome manner beyond his power to define.It was as one who beholds a shadow fallacross his threshold, which he can neitherpick up nor cast away.

Ollie had no more little attentions forJoe, but endless solicitude for Morgan’s

comfort; no more full smiles for him, butonly the reflections of those whichbeamed for the chattering lounger whomade a pretense of selling books while hemade love to another man’s wife.

It was this dim groping after the truth,and his half-conception of it, that renderedJoe miserable. He did not fully understandwhat Morgan was about, but it was plainto him that the man had no honest purposethere. He could not repeat his fears toIsom, for Isom’s wrath and correctionwould fall on Ollie. Now he was left incharge of his master’s house, his lands, hislivestock, and his honor.

The vicarious responsibility rested onhim with serious weight. Knowing whathe knew, and seeing what he saw, shouldhe allow things to proceed as they had

been going? Would he be true to the trustthat Isom had placed in him with hisparting word in standing aside andknowingly permitting this man to slip inand poison the heart of Isom’s wife?

She was lonely and oppressed, andhungry for kind words, but it was not thisstranger’s office to make green thebarrenness of her life. He was there, thebondboy, responsible to his master for hisacts. She might come to him for sympathy,and go away with honor. But with thisother, this man whose pale eyes shiftedand darted like a botfly around a horse’sear, could she drink his counsel andremain undefiled?

Joe thought it up and down as heworked in the field near the house thatmorning, and his face grew hot and his

eyes grew fevered, and his resentmentagainst Morgan rose in his throat.

He watched to see the man drive awayon his canvassing round, but the sunpassed nine o’clock and he did not go. Hehad no right there, alone in the house withthat woman, putting, who could say, whatevil into her heart.

Ten o’clock and the agent’s buggy hadnot left the barn. Joe could contain himselfno longer. He was at work in a little stonypiece of late clover, so rough he did notlike to risk the mower in it. For threehours he had been laying the tumbledswaths in winding tracks across the field,and he had a very good excuse for going tothe well, indeed. Coupled with that wasthe need of a whet-rock, and behind it allthe justification of his position. He was

there in his master’s place; he must watchand guard the honor of his house.

Joe could not set out on that little tripwithout a good deal of moral cudgelingwhen it came to the point, although hethrew down his scythe with a mutteredcurse on his lips for the man who wasplaying such an underhanded game.

It was on Ollie’s account he hesitated.Ollie would think that he suspected her,when there was nothing farther from hismind. It was Morgan who would set thesnare for her to trip into, and it wasMorgan that he was going to send abouthis business. But Ollie might take offenseand turn against him, and make it asunpleasant as she had shown that shecould make it agreeable.

But duty was stronger than friendship. It

was stern and implacable, and there wasno pleasant road to take around it andcome out with honor at the other end.

Joe made as much noise as he couldwith his big feet–and that was noinconsiderable amount–as he approachedthe house. But near the building the grasswas long, and soft underfoot, and it boreJoe around to the kitchen window silently.His lips were too dry to whistle; his heartwas going too fast to carry a tune.

He paused a little way beyond thewindow, which stood open with the sunfalling through it, listening for the sound oftheir voices. It was strangely silent for atime when the book-agent was around.

Joe went on, his shadow breaking thesunbeam which whitened the kitchen floor.There was a little quick start as he came

suddenly to the kitchen door; a hurried stirof feet. As he stepped upon the porch hesaw Morgan in the door, Ollie not a yardbehind him, their hands just breaking theirclasp. Joe knew in his heart that Morganhad been holding her in his arms.

Ollie’s face was flushed, her hair wasdisturbed. Her bosom rose and fell liketroubled water, her eyes were brighterthan Joe ever had seen them. Even Morganwas different, sophisticated and brazenthat he was. A flash of red showed on hischeekbones and under his eyes; his thinnostrils were panting like gills.

Joe stood there, one foot on the porch,the other on the ground, as blunt ashonesty, as severe as honor. There wasnothing in his face that either of themcould read to indicate what was surging in

his breast. He had caught them, and theywondered if he had sense enough to know.

Joe pushed his hat back from hissweating forehead and looked inquiringlyat Morgan.

“Your horse sick, or something?” heasked.

“No,” said Morgan, turning his back onJoe with a little jerk of contempt in hisshoulders.

“Well, I think he must be down, orsomething,” said Joe, “for I heard a racketin the barn.”

“Why didn’t you go and see what wasthe matter?” demanded Morgan crossly,snatching his hat from the table.

Ollie was drowned in a confusion ofblushes. She stood hanging her head, but

Joe saw the quick turn of her eyes tofollow Morgan as he went away in longstrides toward the barn.

Joe went to the tool-chest which stoodin a corner of the kitchen and busiedhimself clattering over its contents.Presently he looked at Ollie, his hand onthe open lid of the box.

“Did you see that long whetstone lyingaround anywhere, Ollie?” he asked.

She lifted her head with a little start.Joe never had called her familiarly by hername before. It always had been “MissisChase,” distant and respectful.

“No, I haven’t seen it, Joe,” sheanswered, the color leaving her cheeks.

“All right, Ollie,” said he, holding hereyes with steady gaze, until she shifted

hers under the pain of it, and thequestioning reproach.

Joe slammed down the lid of the tool-chest, as if with the intention of making asmuch noise as possible.

There was something in the way he hadspoken her name that was stranger than thecircumstance itself. Perhaps she felt theauthority and the protection which Joemeant that his voice should assume;perhaps she understood that it was theword of a man. She was afraid of him atthat moment, as she never had been afraidof Isom in all their married life.

“I suppose Isom put it away somewherearound the barn,” said Joe.

“Maybe he did, Joe.”“I’ll go down there and see if I can find

it,” he said.Ollie knew, as well as Joe himself, that

he was making the whetstone the vehicleto carry his excuse for watching Morganaway from the farm, but she was notcertain whether this sudden shrewdnesswas the deep understanding of a man, orthe domineering spirit of a crude lad,jealous of his passing authority.

The uncertainty troubled her. Shewatched him from the door and saw himapproach Morgan, where he was backinghis horse into the shafts.

“All right, is he?” asked Joe, stopping amoment.

Morgan was distant.“I guess he’ll live another day, don’t

worry about him,” said he, in surly voice.

“What time do you aim to be backtoday?” pursued Joe, entirely unmoved byMorgan’s show of temper.

“Say, I’ll set up a bulletin board withmy time-table on it if you’ve got to have it,Mr. Overseer!” said Morgan, looking upfrom the buckling of a shaft-strap, his facecoloring in anger.

“Well, you don’t need to get huffy overit.”

“Mind your business then,” Morgangrowled.

He didn’t wait to discuss the matterfarther, but got into the buggy withoutfavoring Joe with as much as anotherglance, gave his horse a vindictive lashwith the whip and drove off, leaving thegate open behind him.

Joe shut it, and turned back to hismowing.

Many a time he paused that morning inhis labor, leaning on the snath of hisscythe, in a manner of abstraction andseeming indolence altogether strange tohim. There was a scene, framed by thebrown casing of the kitchen door, withtwo figures in it, two clinging hands,which persisted in its disturbingrecurrence in his troubled mind.

Ollie was on dangerous ground. Howfar she had advanced, he did not know, butnot yet, he believed, to the place wherethe foulness of Morgan had defiled herbeyond cleansing. It was his duty as theguardian of his master’s house to watchher, even to warn her, and to stop herbefore she went too far.

Once he put down his scythe and startedto go to the house, his mind full of what hefelt it his duty to say.

Then there rose up that feeling ofdisparity between matron and youth whichhad held him at a distance from Olliebefore. He turned back to his work with ablush upon his sun-scorched face, and feltashamed. But it was not a thing to bedeferred until after the damage had beendone. He must speak to her that day,perhaps when he should go in for dinner.So he said.

Ollie seemed self-contained anduncommunicative at dinner. Joe thoughtshe was a little out of humor, or that shewas falling back into her old gloomy way,from which she had emerged, all smilesand dimples, like a new and youthful

creature, on the coming of Morgan. Hethought, too, that this might be her way ofshowing her resentment of the familiaritythat he had taken in calling her by hername.

The feeling of deputy-mastership wasno longer important upon his shoulders.He shrank down in his chair with a senseof drawing in, like a snail, while heburned with humiliation and shame. Thepinnacle of manhood was too slippery forhis clumsy feet; he had plumped downfrom its altitudes as swiftly as he hadmounted that morning under the spur ofduty. He was a boy, and felt that he was aboy, and far, far from being anythingnobler, or stronger, or better qualified togive saving counsel to a woman older, ifnot wiser, than himself.

Perhaps it was Ollie’s purpose toinspire such feeling, and to hold Joe in hisplace. She was neither so dull, nor sounpractised in the arts of coquetry, tomake such a supposition improbable.

It was only when Joe sighted Morgandriving back to the farm late in theafternoon that his feeling of authorityasserted itself again, and lifted him up tothe task before him. He must let herunderstand that he knew of what wasgoing on between them. A few wordswould suffice, and they must be spokenbefore Morgan entered the house again topour his poison into her ears.

Ollie was churning that afternoon,standing at her task close by the opendoor. Joe came past the window, as hehad crossed it that morning, his purpose

hot upon him, his long legs measuring theground in immense, swift steps. Hecarried his hat in his hand, for the day wasone of those with the pepper of autumn init which puts the red in the apple’s cheeks.

Ollie heard him approaching; her barearm stayed the stroke of the churn-dasheras she looked up. Her face was bright, asmile was in her eyes, revealing the cleardepths of them, and the life and the desiresthat issued out of them, like the waters of aspring in the sun. She was moist andradiant in the sweat of her labor, andclean and fresh and sweet to see.

Her dress was parted back from herbosom to bare it to the refreshment of thebreeze, and her skin was as white as thecream on the dasher, and the crimson ofher cheeks blended down upon her neck,

as if the moisture of her brow had diffusedits richness, and spread its beauty there.

She looked at Joe, halted suddenly likea post set upright in the ground, stunned bythe revelation of the plastic beauty of neckand bare bosom, and, as their eyes met,she smiled, lifted one white arm andpushed back a straying lock of hair.

Joe’s tongue lay cold, and numb aswood against his palate; no word wouldcome to it; it would not move. The wonderof a new beauty in God’s created thingswas deep upon him; a warm fountain rosein him and played and tossed, with a newand pleasurable thrill. He saw andadmired, but he was not ashamed.

All that he had come to say to her wasforgotten, all that he had framed to speakas he bore hastily on toward the house had

evaporated from his heated brain. A newworld turned its bright colors before hiseyes, a new breadth of life had beenrevealed, it seemed to him. In the pleasureof his discovery he stood with no powerin him but to tremble and stare.

The flush deepened in Ollie’s cheeks.She understood what was moving in hisbreast, for it is given to her kind to knowman before he knows himself. She feignedsurprise to behold him thus stricken,staring and silent, his face scarlet with thesurge of his hot blood.

With one slow-lifted hand she gatheredthe edges of her dress together,withdrawing the revealed secret of herbreast.

“Why, Joe! What are you looking at?”she asked.

“You,” he answered, his voice dry andhoarse, like that of one who asks for waterat the end of a race. He turned away fromher then, saying no more, and passedquickly out of her sight beyond theshrubbery which shouldered the kitchenwall.

Slowly Ollie lifted the dasher whichhad settled to the bottom of the churn, anda smile broke upon her lips. As she wenton with the completion of her task, shesmiled still, with lips, with eyes, withwarm exultation of her strong young body,as over a triumphant ending of some issuelong at balance and undefined.

Joe went away from the kitchen door ina strange daze of faculties. For that newfeeling which leaped in him and warmedhim to the core, and gave him confidence

in his strength never before enjoyed, andan understanding of things hithertounrevealed, he was glad. But at heart hefelt that he was a traitor to the trustimposed in him, and that he had violatedthe sanctity of his master’s home.

Now he knew what it was that hadmade his cheeks flame in anger and hisblood leap in resentment when he sawOllie in the door that morning, all flushedand trembling from Morgan’s arms; nowhe understood why he had lingered tointerpose between them in past days. Itwas the wild, deep fear of jealousy. Hewas in love with his master’s wife! Whathad been given him to guard, he hadlooked upon with unholy hunger; thatwhich had been left with him to treasure,he had defiled with lustful eyes.

Joe struck across the fields, his workforgotten, now hot with the mounting firesof his newly discovered passion, nowcold with the swelling accusation of atrust betrayed. Jealousy, and not a regardfor his master’s honor, had prompted himto put her on her guard against Morgan. Hehad himself coveted his neighbor’s wife.He had looked upon a woman to lust afterher, he had committed adultery in hisheart. Between him and Morgan there wasno redeeming difference. One was as badas the other, said Joe. Only this difference;he would stop there, in time, ashamed nowof the offending of his eyes and thetrespass of his heart. Ollie did not know.He had not wormed his way into her heartby pitying her unhappiness, like the falseguest who had emptied his lies into her

ears.Joe was able to see now how little

deserving Isom was of any such blessingas Ollie, how ill-assorted they were bynature, inclination and age. But God hadjoined them, for what pains and penancesHe alone knew, and it was not the work ofany man to put them apart.

At the edge of a hazel coppice, faraway from the farmhouse that sheltered theobject of his tender thoughts and furtivedesires, Joe sat among the first fallenleaves of autumn, fighting to clear himselffrom the perplexities of that disquietingsituation. In the agony of his achingconscience, he bowed his head andgroaned.

A man’s burden of honor had fallenupon him with the disclosure of a man’s

desires. His boyhood seemed suddenly tohave gone from him like the light of alamp blown out by a puff of wind. He feltold, and responsible to answer now forhimself, since the enormity of his offensewas plain to his smarting conscience.

And he was man enough to look afterMorgan, too. He would proceed to dealwith Morgan on a new basis, himself outof the calculation entirely. Ollie must beprotected against his deceitful wiles, andagainst herself as well.

Joe trembled in his newer and clearerunderstanding of the danger that threatenedher as he hastened back to the barn-yard totake up his neglected chores. The thoughtthat Morgan and Ollie were alone in thehouse almost threw him into a fever ofpanic and haste.

He must not be guilty of such anoversight again; he must stand like a sternwall between them, and be able to accountfor his trust to Isom with unclouded heart.

CHAPTER VTHE SECRET OF THE

CLOVER

Until the time he had entered Isom Chase’shouse, temptation never had come nearJoe Newbolt. He never had kissed amaiden; he never had felt the quickeningelixir of a soft breast pressed against hisown. And so it fell that the suddenconception of what he had unwittinglycome to, bore on him with a weight whichhis sensitive and upright mind magnifiedinto an enormous and crushing shame.While his intention could bear arraignmentand come away with acquittal, the fact thathe had been perverted enough in the grain,

as he looked at it, to drift unknowinglyinto love with another man’s wife, galledhim until his spirit groaned.

Isom did not return that evening; theconclusion of his household was that hehad been chosen on a jury. They discussedit at supper, Ollie nervously gay, Morganfull of raucous laughter, Joe sober andgrudging of his words.

Joe never had borne much of a hand atthe table-talk since Morgan came, andbefore his advent there was none to speakof, so his taciturnity that evening passedwithout a second thought in the minds ofOllie and her guest. They had wordsenough for a house full of people, thoughtJoe, as he saw that for every word fromthe lips they sent two speeding from theireyes. That had become a language to

which he had found the Rosetta Stone; itwas as plain to him now as Roman text.

Perhaps Morgan regarded her with anaffection as sincere as his own. He did notknow; but he felt that it could not be asblameless, for if Joe had desired her in theuninterpreted passion of his full youngheart, he had brought himself up to suddenjudgment before the tribunal of hisconscience. It would go no farther. He hadput his moral foot down and smothered hisunholy desire, as he would have stampedout a flame.

It seemed to Joe that there wassomething in Morgan’s eyes whichbetrayed his heart. Little gleams of hisunderlying purpose which his levitymasked, struck Joe from time to time,setting his wits on guard. Morgan must be

watched, like a cat within leaping distanceof an unfledged bird. Joe set himself thetask of watching, determined then andthere that Morgan should not have onedangerous hour alone with Ollie againuntil Isom came back and lifted theresponsibility of his wife’s safety from hisshoulders.

For a while after supper that night Joesat on the bench beside the kitchen door,the grape-vine rustling over his head,watching Ollie as she went to and froabout her work of clearing away. Morganwas in the door, his back against the jamb,leisurely smoking his pipe. Once in awhile a snoring beetle passed in above hishead to join his fellows around the lamp.As each recruit to the blundering companyarrived, Morgan slapped at him as he

passed, making Ollie laugh. On the low,splotched ceiling of the kitchen the fliesshifted and buzzed, changing drowsilyfrom place to place.

“Isom ought to put screens on thewindows and doors,” said Morgan,looking up at the flies.

“Mosquito bar, you mean?” askedOllie, throwing him a smile over hershoulder as she passed.

“No, I mean wire-screens, everybody’sgettin’ ’em in now; I’ve been thinkin’ oftakin’ ’em on as a side-line.”

“It’ll be a cold day in July when Isomspends any money just to keep flies out ofhis house!” said she.

Morgan laughed.“Maybe if a person could show him that

they eat up a lot of stuff he’d come aroundto it,” Morgan said.

“Maybe,” said Ollie, and both of themhad their laugh again.

Joe moved on the bench, making itcreak, an uneasy feeling coming over him.Close as Isom was, and hard-handed andmean, Joe felt that there was a certainindelicacy in his wife’s discussion of histraits with a stranger.

Ollie had cleared away the dishes,washed them and placed them in thecupboard, on top of which the one clockof that household stood, scar-faced, buthoarse-voiced when it struck, and strongas the challenge of an old cock. Already ithad struck nine, for they had been late incoming to supper, owing to Joe’s long set-to with his conscience at the edge of the

hazel-copse in the woods.Joe got up, stretching his arms,

yawning.“Goin’ to bed, heh?” asked Morgan.“No, I don’t seem to feel sleepy

tonight,” Joe replied.He went into the kitchen and sat at the

table, his elbows on the board, his head inhis hands, as if turning over some difficultproblem in his mind. Presently he fell toraking his shaggy hair with his longfingers; in a moment it was as disorderlyas the swaths of clover hay lying out in themoonlight in the little stone-set field.

Morgan had filled his pipe, and wasafter a match at the box behind the stove,with the familiarity of a household inmate.He winked at Ollie, who was then pulling

down her sleeves, her long day’s workbeing done.

“Well, do you think you’ll be elected?”he asked, lounging across to Joe, his handsin his pockets.

Morgan wore a shirt as gay-striped as aPersian tent, and he had removed his coatso the world, or such of it as was presentin the kitchen, might behold it and admire.Joe withdrew his hands from his forelockand looked at Morgan curiously. The lad’seyes were sleep-heavy and red, and hewas almost as dull-looking, perhaps, asMorgan imagined him to be.

“What did you say?” he asked.“I asked you if you thought you’d be

elected this fall,” repeated Morgan, inmock seriousness.

“I don’t know what you mean,” saidJoe, turning from him indifferently.

“Why, ain’t you runnin’ for President onthe squash-vine ticket?” asked Morgan. “Iheard you was the can’idate.”

Joe got up from the table and moved hischair away with his foot. As he was thusoccupied he saw Ollie’s shadow on thewall repeat a gesture of caution which shemade to Morgan, a lifting of the hand, ashaking of the head. Even the shadowbetrayed the intimate understandingbetween them. Joe went over and stood inthe door.

“No use for you to try to be a fool,Morgan; that’s been attended to for youalready,” said he.

There wasn’t much heart in Morgan’slaugh, but it would pass for one on

account of the volume of sound.“Oh, let a feller have his joke, won’t

you, Joe?” said he.“Go ahead,” granted Joe, leaning his

shoulder against the jamb, facing outtoward the dark.

Morgan went over and put his hand onthe great lad’s shoulder, with a show offriendly condescension.

“What would the world be without itsjokes?” he asked. And then, beforeanybody could answer: “It’d be like homewithout a mother.”

Joe faced him, a slow grin spreadingback to his ears.

“Or a ready-reckoner,” said he.Morgan’s laugh that time was

unfeigned.

“Joe, you’ve missed your callin’,” saidhe. “You’ve got no business foolin’ awayyour time on a farm. With that solemn,long-hungry look of yours you ought to besell in’ consumption cure and ringboneointment from the end of a wagon on thesquare in Kansas City.”

“Or books, maybe,” suggested Joe.“No-o-o,” said Morgan thoughtfully, “I

wouldn’t just say you’re up to the level ofbooks. But you might rise even to books ifyou’d cultivate your mind and brain. Well,I think I’ll fly up to roost. I’ve got to takean early start in the morning and clean upon this neck of the woods tomorrow.Good night, folks.”

“I don’t suppose Isom’ll be hometonight,” Ollie ventured, as Morgan’s feetsounded on the stairs.

“No, I guess not,” Joe agreed, staringthoughtfully at the black oblong of thedoor.

“If he does come, I don’t suppose it’llhurt him to eat something cold,” she said.

“I’ll wait up a while longer. If hecomes I can warm up the coffee for him,”Joe offered.

“Then I’ll go to bed, too,” she yawnedwearily.

“Yes, you’d better go,” said he.Ollie’s room, which was Isom’s also

when he was there, was in the front of thehouse, upstairs. Joe heard her feet alongthe hall, and her door close after her.Morgan was still tramping about in theroom next to Joe’s, where he slept. It wasthe best room in the house, better than the

one shared by Isom and his wife, and inthe end of the house opposite to it. Joe satquietly at the table until Morgan’scomplaining bed-springs told him that theguest had retired. Then he mounted thenarrow kitchen stairs to his own chamber.

Joe sat on the edge of his bed andpulled off his boots, dropping them noisilyon the floor. Then, with shirt and trouserson, he drew the quilt from his bed, tookhis pillow under his arm, and opened thedoor into the hall which divided the housefrom end to end.

The moon was shining in through thedouble window in the end toward Ollie’sroom; it lay on the white floor, almost asbright as the sun. Within five feet of thatsplash of moonlight Joe spread his quilt.There he set his pillow and stretched his

long body diagonally across the narrowhall, blocking it like a gate.

Joe roused Morgan next morning atdawn, and busied himself with making afire in the kitchen stove and bringingwater from the well until the guest camedown to feed his horse. Morgan was in acrusty humor. He had very little to say,and Joe did not feel that the world wasany poorer for his silence.

“This will be my last meal with you,”announced Morgan at breakfast. “I’ll notbe back tonight.”

Ollie was paler than usual, Joe noticed,and a cloud of dejection seemed to havesettled over her during the night. She didnot appear to be greatly interested inMorgan’s statement, although she lookedup from her breakfast with a little show of

friendly politeness. Joe thought that shedid not seem to care for the agent; thetightness in his breast was suddenly andgratefully eased.

“You haven’t finished out your week,there’ll be something coming to you onwhat you’ve paid in advance,” said she.

“Let that go,” said Morgan, obliteratingall claim with a sweep of his hand.

“I think you’d better take back what’scoming to you,” suggested Joe.

Morgan turned to him with stiffseverity.

“Are you the watch-dog of the oldman’s treasury?” he sneered.

“Maybe I am, for a day or two,”returned Joe, “and if you step on me I’llbite.”

He leveled his steady gray eyes atMorgan’s shifting orbs, and held themthere as if to drive in some hidden importof his words. Morgan seemed tounderstand. He colored, laughed shortly,and busied himself buttering a griddle-cake.

Ollie, pale and silent, had not looked upduring this by-passage between the twomen. Her manner was of one whoexpected something, which she dreadedand feared to face.

Morgan took the road early. Joe sawhim go with a feeling of relief. He felt likea swollen barrel which had burst itsclose-binding hoops, he thought, as hewent back to the place where he droppedhis scythe yesterday.

As he worked through the long morning

hours Joe struggled to adjust himself to thenew conditions, resulting from thediscovery of his own enlargement andunderstanding. It would be a harder matternow to go on living there with Ollie. Eachday would be a trial by fire, the weeksand months a lengthening highway strewnwith the embers of his own smolderingpassion. Something might happen, almostany day, youth and youth together, galledby the same hand of oppression, thatwould overturn his peace forever. Yet, hecould not leave. The bond of his mother’smaking, stamped with the seal of the law,held him captive there.

At length, after spending a harrowingmorning over it, he reached thedetermination to stand up to it like a man,and serve Isom as long as he could do so

without treason. When the day came thathis spirit weakened and his continencefailed, he would throw down the burdenand desert. That he would do, even thoughhis mother’s hopes must fall and his owndreams of redeeming the place of hisbirth, to which he was attached by asentiment almost poetic, must dissolvelike vapor in the sun.

It was mid-afternoon when Joe finishedhis mowing and stood casting his eyes upto the sky for signs of rain. There beingnone, he concluded that it would be safe toallow yesterday’s cutting to lie anothernight in the field while he put in theremainder of the day with his scythe in thelower orchard plot, where the clovergrew rank among the trees.

Satisfied that he had made a showing

thus far with which Isom could find nofault, Joe tucked the snath of his scytheunder his arm and set out for that part ofthe orchard which lay beyond the hill, outof sight of the barn and house, and fromthat reason called the “lower orchard” byIsom, who had planted it with his ownhand more than thirty years ago.

There noble wine-sap stretched outmighty arms to fondle willow-twig acrossthe shady aisles, and maidenblush rubbedcheeks with Spitzenberg, all reddening inthe sun. Under many of the trees theground was as bare as if fire haddevastated it, for the sun never fell throughthose close-woven branches from May toOctober, and there no clover grew. But inthe open spaces between the rows itsprang rank and tall, troublesome to cut

with a mower because of the low-swinging, fruit-weighted limbs.

Joe waded into this paradise of fruitand clover bloom, dark leaf and strainingbough, stooping now and then to pick up afallen apple and try its mellowness withhis thumb. They were all hard, and fit onlyfor cider yet, but their rich colors beguiledthe eye into betrayal of the palate. Joefixed his choice upon a golden willow-twig. As he stood rubbing the apple on hissleeve, his eye running over the task aheadof him in a rough estimate of the time itwould require to clean up the clover, hestarted at sight of a white object danglingfrom a bough a few rods ahead of him. Hisattention curiously held, he went forwardto investigate, when a little start of windswung the object out from the limb and he

saw that it was a woman’s sun-bonnet,hanging basket-wise by its broad strings.There was no question whose it was; hehad seen the same bonnet hanging in thekitchen not three hours before, fresh fromthe ironing board.

Joe dropped his apple unbitten, andstrode forward, puzzled a bit over thecircumstance. He wondered what hadbrought Ollie down there, and where shewas then. She never came to that part ofthe orchard to gather wind-falls for thepigs–she was not gathering them at allduring Isom’s absence, he had relievedher of that–and there was nothing else tocall her away from the house at that timeof the day.

The lush clover struck him mid-thigh,progress through it was difficult. Joe lifted

his feet like an Indian, toes turned in a bit,and this method of walking made it appearas if he stalked something, for he movedwithout noise.

He had dropped his scythe with theapple, his eyes held Ollie’s swingingbonnet as he approached it as if it weresome rare bird which he hoped to stealupon and take. Thus coming on, with high-lifted feet, his breath short fromexcitement, Joe was within ten yards ofthe bonnet when a voice sounded behindthe intervening screen of clover andboughs.

Joe dropped in his tracks, as if ham-strung, crouched in the clover, pressed hishands to his mouth to stifle the groan thatrose to his lips. It was Morgan’s voice.He had come sneaking back while the

watch-dog was off guard, secure in thebelief that he had gone away. As Joecrouched there hidden in the clover,trembling and cold with anger, Morgan’svoice rose in a laugh.

“Well, I wouldn’t have given him creditfor that much sense if I hadn’t seen himwith my own eyes,” said he.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” saidOllie, their voices distinct in Joe’sshamed ears, for it was as quiet in theorchard as on the first day.

They both laughed over what she said.“He thinks I’m gone, he’ll go to bed

early tonight,” said Morgan. “Don’t botherabout bringing anything with you.”

“Not even my diamonds?” she laughed.Morgan’s gruffer mirth joined her, and

Joe found himself straining to hear,although he despised himself for spyingand eavesdropping, even on guilt.

“We can get on without the diamonds,”said Morgan, “and I don’t suppose you’vegot any ball dresses or sealskin cloaks?”

“Three calico wrappers that he’sbought me, and a dress or two that I hadwhen I came,” said Ollie, bitterly.

“You’ll have all you want in a day ortwo, honey,” said Morgan, in comfortingvoice.

They were silent a while; then Joeheard her ask the time. Morgan told her itwas half-past four.

“Oh, I had no idea it was that late–timegoes so fast when I’m with you! I must goback to the house now, Joe might come in

and find me gone.”“Yes, I’d like to wring his damned

neck!” said Morgan.“He’s a good boy, Curtis,” she

defended, but with lightness, “but he’s alittle––”

She held her words back coquettishly.“Heh?” queried Morgan.“Jealous, you old goose! Can’t you see

it?”Morgan had a great laugh over that.

From the sound of his voice Joe knew thathe was standing, and his whole bodyached with the fear that they woulddiscover him lying there in the clover. Notthat he was afraid of Morgan, but that hedreaded the humiliation which Ollie mustsuffer in knowing that her guilty tryst had

been discovered.“I’ll meet you at the gate, I’ll have the

buggy on down the road a little ways,”Morgan told her. “There’s only a littlewhile between you and liberty now,sweetheart.”

Joe dared not look up nor move, but heneeded no eyes to know that Morgankissed her then. After that he heard herrunning away toward the house. Morganstood there a little while, whistling softly.Soon Joe heard him going in the directionof the road.

Morgan was quite a distance aheadwhen Joe sprang out of his concealmentand followed him, for he wanted to giveOllie time to pass beyond ear-shot of theorchard. As Joe made no attempt tosmother the sound of his feet, Morgan

heard him while he was still several yardsbehind him. He turned, stopped, andwaited for Joe to come up.

Joe’s agitation was plain in his face, hisshocked eyes stared out of its pallor as ifthey had looked upon violence and death.

“What’s the matter, kid?” inquiredMorgan carelessly.

“I’ve got something to say to you,”answered Joe thickly. He was panting,more from rage than exertion; his handstrembled.

Morgan looked him over from boots tobandless hat with the same evidence ofcuriosity as a person displays whenturning some washed-up object with thefoot on the sands. It was as if he had butan abstract interest in the youth, a feelingwhich the incident had obtruded upon him

without penetrating the reserve of hisprivate cogitations.

“Kid, you look like you’d seen asnake,” said he.

“You let that woman alone–you’ve gotto let her alone, I tell you!” said Joe withexplosive suddenness, his passion out ofhand.

Morgan’s face grew red.“Mind your own business, you sneakin’

skunk!” said he.“I am minding it,” said Joe; “but maybe

not as well as I ought to ’a’ done. Isomleft me here in his place to watch and lookafter things, but you’ve sneaked in undermy arm like a dirty, thieving dog, andyou’ve–you’ve––”

Morgan thrust his fist before Joe’s face.

“That’ll do now–that’ll do out of you!”he threatened.

Joe caught Morgan’s wrist with a quick,snapping movement, and slowly bent thethreatening arm down, Morgan struggling,foot to foot with him in the test of strength.J o e held the captured arm down for amoment, and they stood breast to breast,glaring into each other’s eyes. Then with awrench that spun Morgan half round andmade him stagger, Joe flung his arm free.

“Now, you keep away from here–keepaway!” he warned, his voice growing thinand boyish in the height of his emotion, asif it would break in the treble shallows.

“Don’t fool with me or I’ll hurt you,”said Morgan. “Keep your nose––”

“Let her alone!” commanded Joesternly, his voice sinking again even

below its accustomed level, gruff anddeep in his chest. “I heard you–I didn’tmean to, but I couldn’t help it–and I knowwhat you’re up to tonight. Don’t comearound here tonight after her, for I’m notgoing to let her go.”

“Ya-a, you pup, you pup!” said Morgannastily.

“It’s a hard life for her here–I know thatbetter than you do,” said Joe, passing overthe insult, “but you can’t give her anybetter–not as good. What you’ve donecan’t be undone now, but I can keep youfrom dragging her down any further. Don’tyou come back here tonight!”

“If you keep your fingers out of thefire,” said Morgan, looking at the ground,rolling a fallen apple with his toe, “you’llnot get scorched. You stick to your knittin’

and don’t meddle with mine. That’ll beabout the healthiest thing you can do!”

“If Isom knew what you’ve done he’dkill you–if he’s even half a man,” saidJoe. “She was a good woman till youcame, you hound!”

“She’s a good woman yet,” saidMorgan, with some feeling, “too good forthat old hell-dog she’s married to!”

“Then let her stay good–at least as goodas she is,” advised Joe.

“Oh, hell!” said Morgan disgustedly.“You can’t have her,” persisted Joe.“We’ll see about that, too,” said

Morgan, his manner and voice threatening.“What’re you goin’ to do–pole off and tellthe old man?”

“I’ll do what Isom left me here to do,

the rest of the time he’s away,” said Joe.“Ollie shan’t leave the house tonight.”

“Yes, you flat-bellied shad, you wanther yourself–you’re stuck on her yourself,you fool! Yes, and you’ve got just about asmuch show of gittin’ her as I have ofjumpin’ over that tree!” derided Morgan.

“No matter what I think of her, good orbad, she’d be safe with me,” Joe told him,searching his face accusingly.

“Yes, of course she would!” scoffedMorgan. “You’re one of these saintsthat’ll live all your life by a punkin andnever poke it with your finger. Oh, yes, Iknow your kind!”

“I’m not going to quarrel with you,Morgan, unless you make me,” said Joe;“but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.I don’t want her, not the way you do,

anyhow.”Morgan looked at him closely, then put

out his hand with a gesture of conciliation.“I’ll take that back, Joe,” said he.

“You’re not that kind of a kid. You meanwell, but you don’t understand. Look-ahere, let me tell you, Joe: I love that littlewoman, kid, just as honest and true as anyman could love her, and she thinks theworld and all of me. I only want to takeher away from here because I love her andwant to make her happy. Don’t you see it,kid?”

“How would you do that? You couldn’tmarry her.”

“Not for a while, of course,” admittedMorgan. “But the old possum he’d get adivorce in a little while.”

“Well, I’m not going to let her go,” Joedeclared, turning away as if that settledthe matter for good and all. “You’vedone–I could kill you for what you’vedone!” said he, with sudden vehemence.

Morgan looked at him curiously, hiscareless face softening.

“Now, see here, don’t you look at it thatway, Joe,” he argued. “I’m not so bad;neither is Ollie. You’ll understand thesematters better when you’re older andknow more about the way men feel. Shewanted love, and I gave her love. She’sbeen worked to rags and bones by that olddevil; and what I’ve done, and what Iwant to do, is in kindness, Joe. I’ll takeher away from here and provide for herlike she was a queen, I’ll give her the loveand comradeship of a young man and make

her happy, Joe. Don’t you see?”“But you can’t make her respectable,”

said Joe. “I’m not going to let her leavewith you, or go to you. If she wants to goafter Isom comes back, then let her. Butnot before. Now, you’d better go on away,Morgan, before I lose my temper. I wasmad when I started after you, but I’vecooled down. Don’t roil me up again. Goon your way, and leave that womanalone.”

“Joe, you’re a man in everything butsense,” said Morgan, not unkindly, “and Ireckon if you and I was to clinch we’draise a purty big dust and muss thingsaround a right smart. And I don’t knowwho’d come out on top at the finish,neither. So I don’t want to have anytrouble with you. All I ask of you is step

to one side and leave us two alone in whatwe’ve started to do and got all planned tocarry out. Go to bed tonight and go tosleep. You’re not supposed to know thatanything’s due to happen, and if you sleepsound you’ll find a twenty-dollar billunder your hat in the morning.”

The suggestion brought a blush to Joe’sface. He set his lips as if fighting downhot words before he spoke.

“If I have to tie her I’ll do it,” said Joeearnestly. “She shan’t leave. And if I haveto take down that old gun from the kitchenwall to keep you away from here till Isomcomes home, I’ll take it down. You cancome to the gate tonight if you want to, butif you do––”

Joe looked him straight in the eyes.Morgan’s face lost its color. He turned as

if to see that his horse was still standing,and stood that way a little while.

“I guess I’ll drive on off, Joe,” saidMorgan with a sigh, as if he had reachedthe conclusion after a long consideration.

“All right,” said Joe.“No hard feelin’s left behind me?”

facing Joe again with his old, self-assuredsmile. He offered his hand, but Joe did nottake it.

“As long as you never come back,” saidJoe.

Morgan walked to the fence, his headbent, thoughtfully. Joe followed, as if tosatisfy himself that the wily agent was notgoing to work some subterfuge, havingsmall faith in his promise to leave, muchless in the probability that he would stay

away.Joe stood at the fence, looking after

Morgan, long after the dust of his wheelshad settled again to the road. At last hewent back to the place where he haddropped his scythe, and cut a swathstraight through to the tree where Ollie’sbonnet had hung. And there he mowed thetrampled clover, and obliterated herfootprints with his own.

The weight of his discovery was likesome dead thing on his breast. He felt thatOllie had fallen from the high heaven ofhis regard, never to mount to her placeagain. But Isom did not know of this bitterthing, this shameful shadow at his door.As far as it rested with him to hold thesecret in his heart, poison though it was tohim, Isom should never know.

CHAPTER VIBLOOD

Joe had debated the matter fully in hismind before going in to supper. Since hehad sent her tempter away, there was nonecessity of taking Ollie to task, thuslaying bare his knowledge of her guiltysecret. He believed that her consciencewould prove its own flagellant in the daysto come, when she had time to reflect andrepent, away from the debauchinginfluence of the man who had led herastray. His blame was all for Morgan,who had taken advantage of her lonelinessand discontent.

Joe now recalled, and understood, her

reaching out to him for sympathy; he sawclearly that she had demanded somethingbeyond the capacity of his unseasonedheart to give. Isom was to blame for thatcondition of her mind, first and mostseverely of all. If Isom had been kind toher, and given her only a small measure ofhuman sympathy, she would have clung tohim, and rested in the shelter of hisprotection, content against all the world.Isom had spread the thorns for his ownfeet, in his insensibility to all human needof gentleness.

Joe even doubted, knowing him as hedid, whether the gray old miser wascapable of either jealousy or shame. Hedid not know, indeed, what Isom might sayto it if his wife’s infidelity became knownto him, but he believed that he would rage

to insanity. Perhaps not because the stingof it would penetrate to his heart, but inhis censure of his wife’s extravagance ingiving away an affection which belonged,under the form of marriage and law, tohim.

Joe was ashamed to meet Ollie at thetable, not for himself, but for her. He wasafraid that his eyes, or his manner, mightbetray what he knew. He might havespared himself this feeling of humiliationon her account, for Ollie, all unconsciousof his discovery, was bright and full ofsmiles. Joe could not rise to her level oflight-heartedness, and, there being nocommon ground between them, he lapsedinto his old-time silence over his plate.

After supper Joe flattened himselfagainst the kitchen wall where he had sat

the night before on the bench outside thedoor, drawing back into the shadow.There he sat and thought it over again,unsatisfied to remain silent, yet afraid tospeak. He did not want to be unjust, forperhaps she did not intend to meet Morganat all. In addition to this doubt of herintentions, he had the hope that Isomwould come very soon. He decided atlength that he would go to bed and lieawake until he heard Ollie pass up to herroom, when he would slip down again andwait. If she came down, he would knowthat she intended to carry out her part ofthe compact with Morgan. Then he couldtell her that Morgan would not come.

Ollie was not long over her work thatnight. When Joe heard her door close, hetook his boots in his hand and went

downstairs. He had left his hat on thekitchen table, according to his nightlycustom; the moonlight coming in throughthe window reminded him of it as hepassed. He put it on, thinking that hewould take a look around the road in thevicinity of the gate, for he suspected thatMorgan’s submissive going masked someiniquitous intent. Joe pulled on his boots,sitting in the kitchen door, listening amoment before he closed it after him, andwalked softly toward the road.

A careful survey as far as he could seein the bright moonlight, satisfied him thatMorgan had not left his horse and buggyaround there anywhere. He might comelater. Joe decided to wait around thereand see.

It was a cool autumn night; a prowling

wind moved silently. Over hedgerow andbarn roof the moonlight lay in whiteradiance; the dusty highway beyond thegate was changed by it into a royal road.Joe felt that there were memories abroadas he rested his arms on the gate-post.Moonlight and a soft wind always movedhim with a feeling of indefinite andshapeless tenderness, as elusive as theecho of a song. There was a soothingquality in the night for him, which lavedhis bruised sensibilities like balm. Heexpanded under its influence; the tumult ofhis breast began to subside.

The revelations of that day had fallenrudely upon the youth’s delicately tunedand finely adjusted nature. He hadrecoiled in horror from the sacrilegewhich that house had suffered. In a

measure he felt that he was guilty alongwith Ollie in her unspeakable sin, in thathe had been so stupid as to permit it.

But, he reflected as he waited therewith his hand upon the weathered gate,great and terrible as the upheaval of hisday-world had been, the night haddescended unconscious of it. Themoonlight had brightened untroubled by it;the wind had come from its woodedplaces unhurried for it, and unvexed. Afterall, it had been only an unheard discord inthe eternal, vast harmony. The things ofmen were matters of infinitesimalconsequence in nature. The passing of anation of men would not disturb itstranquillity as much as the falling of a leaf.

It was then long past the hour when hewas habitually asleep, and his vigil

weighed on him heavily. No one hadpassed along the road; Morgan had notcome in sight. Joe was weary from hisday’s internal conflict and external toil.He began to consider the advisability ofreturning to bed.

Perhaps, thought he, his watch was bothfutile and unjust. Ollie did not intend tokeep her part in the agreement. She mustbe burning with remorse for hertransgression.

He turned and walked slowly towardthe house, stopping a little way along tolook back and make sure that Morgan hadnot appeared. Thus he stood a little while,and then resumed his way.

The house was before him, shadows inthe sharp angles of its roof, its windowscatching the moonlight like wakeful eyes.

There was a calm over it, and a somnolentpeace. It seemed impossible thatiniquitous desires could live and grow ona night like that. Ollie must be asleep, saidhe, and repentant in her dreams.

Joe felt that he might go to his rest withhonesty. It would be welcome, as thedesire of tired youth for its bed is strong.At the well he stopped again to look backfor Morgan.

As he turned a light flashed in thekitchen, gleamed a moment, went outsuddenly. It was as if a match had beenstruck to look for something quickly found,and then blown out with a puff of breath.

At once the fabric of his hopescollapsed, and his honest attempts to liftOllie back to her smirched pedestal andinvest her with at least a part of her

former purity of heart, came to a painfulend. She was preparing to leave. The hourwhen he must speak had come.

He approached the door noiselessly. Itwas closed, as he had left it, and withineverything was still. As he stoodhesitating before it, his hand lifted to layupon the latch, his heart laboring inpainful lunges against his ribs, it openedwithout a sound, and Ollie stood beforehim against the background of dark.

The moonlight came down on himthrough the half-bare arbor, and fell inmottled patches around him where hestood, his hand still lifted, as if to help heron her way. Ollie caught her breath in afrightened start, and shrank back.

“You don’t need to be afraid, Ollie–it’sJoe,” said he.

“Oh, you scared me so!” she panted.Each then waited as if for the other to

speak, and the silence seemed long.“Were you going out somewhere?”

asked Joe.“No; I forgot to put away a few things,

and I came down,” said she. “I woke upout of my sleep thinking of them,” sheadded.

“Well!” said he, wonderingly. “Can Ihelp you any, Ollie?”

“No; it’s only some milk and things,”she told him. “You know how Isom takeson if he finds anything undone. I wasafraid he might come in tonight and seethem.”

“Well!” said Joe again, in a queer,strained way.

He was standing in the door, blocking itwith his body, clenching the jamb with hishands on either side, as if to bar anyattempt that she might make to pass.

“Will you strike a light, Ollie? I want tohave a talk with you,” said he gravely.

“Oh, Joe!” she protested, as ifpleasantly scandalized by the request,intentionally misreading it.

“Have you got another match in yourhand? Light the lamp.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” said she. “I onlyran down for a minute. We don’t need thelight, do we, Joe? Can’t you talk withoutit?”

“No; I want you to light the lamp,” heinsisted.

“I’ll not do it!” she flared suddenly,

turning as if to go to her room. “You’venot got any right to boss me around in myown house!”

“I don’t suppose I have, Ollie, and Ididn’t mean to,” said he, stepping into theroom.

Ollie retreated a few steps toward theinner door, and stopped. Joe could hearher excited breathing as he flung his hat onthe table.

“Ollie, what I’ve got to say to you hasto be said sooner or later tonight, andyou’d just as well hear it now,” said Joe,trying to assure her of his friendly intentby speaking softly, although his voice wastremulous. “Morgan’s gone; he’ll not beback–at least not tonight.”

“Morgan?” said she. “What do youmean–what do I care where he’s gone?”

Joe made no reply. He fumbled for thebox behind the stove and scraped a slowsulphur match against the pipe. Its lightdiscovered Ollie shrinking against thewall where she had stopped, near thedoor.

She was wearing a straw hat, whichmust have been a part of her bridal gear.A long white veil, which she wore scarf-wise over the front display of its flowersand fruits, came down and crossed behindher neck. Its ends dangled upon her breast.The dress was one that Joe never had seenher wear before, a girlish white thing withnarrow ruffles. He wondered as he lookedat her with a great ache in his heart, howso much seeming purity could be so baseand foul. In that bitter moment he cursedold Isom in his heart for goading her to

this desperate bound. She had beenstarving for a man’s love, and for the lackof it she had thrown herself away on adog.

Joe fitted the chimney on the burner ofthe lamp, and stood in judicial seriousnessbefore her, the stub of the burning matchwasting in a little blaze between hisfingers.

“Morgan’s gone,” he repeated, “andhe’ll never come back. I know all aboutyou two, and what you’d planned to do.”

Joe dropped the stub of the match andset his foot on it.

Ollie stared at him, her face as white asher bridal dress, her eyes big, like a barn-yard animal’s eyes in a lantern’s light. Shewas gathering and wadding the ends of herveil in her hands; her lips were open,

showing the points of her small, whiteteeth.

“Isom–he’ll kill me!” she whispered.“Isom don’t know about it,” said Joe.“You’ll tell him!”“No.”Relief flickered in her face. She leaned

forward a little, eagerly, as if to speak, butsaid nothing. Joe shrank back from her, hishand pressing heavily upon the table.

“I never meant to tell him,” said heslowly.

She sprang toward him, her handsclasped appealingly.

“Then you’ll let me go, you’ll let mego?” she cried eagerly. “I can’t stay here,”she hurried on, “you know I can’t stayhere, Joe, and suffer like he’s made me

suffer the past year! You say Morganwon’t come––”

“The coward, to try to steal a man’swife, and deceive you that way, too!” saidJoe, his anger rising.

“Oh, you don’t know him as well as Ido!” she defended, shaking her headsolemnly. “He’s so grand, and good, and Ilove him, Joe–oh, Joe, I love him!”

“It’s wrong for you to say that!” Joeharshly reproved her. “I don’t want tohear you say that; you’re Isom’s wife.”

“Yes, God help me,” said she.“You could be worse off than you are,

Ollie; as it is you’ve got a name!”“What’s a name when you despise it?”

said she bitterly.“Have you thought what people would

say about you if you went away withMorgan, Ollie?” inquired Joe gently.

“I don’t care. We intend to go to someplace where we’re not known, and––”

“Hide,” said Joe. “Hide like thieves.And that’s what you’d be, both of you,don’t you see? You’d never becomfortable and happy, Ollie, skulkingaround that way.”

“Yes, I would be happy,” shemaintained sharply. “Mr. Morgan is agentleman, and he’s good. He’d be proudof me, he’d take care of me like a lady.”

“For a little while maybe, till he foundsomebody else that he thought more of,”said Joe. “When it comes so easy to takeone man’s wife, he wouldn’t stop at goingoff with another.”

“It’s a lie–you know it’s a lie! CurtisMorgan’s a gentleman, I tell you, and I’llnot hear you run him down!”

“Gentlemen and ladies don’t have tohide,” said Joe.

“You’re lying to me!” she charged himsuddenly, her face coloring angrily. “Hewouldn’t go away from here on the say-soof a kid like you. He’s down there waitingfor me, and I’m going to him.”

“I wouldn’t deceive you, Ollie,” saidhe, leaving his post near the door, openinga way for her to pass. “If you think he’sthere, go and see. But I tell you he’s gone.He asked me to shut my eyes to this thingand let you and him carry it out; but Icouldn’t do that, so he went away.”

She knew he was not deceiving her, andshe turned on him with reproaches.

“You want to chain me here and see mework myself to death for that old miserlyIsom!” she stormed. “You’re just as badas he is; you ain’t got a soft spot in yourheart.”

“Yes, I’d rather see you stay here withIsom and do a nigger woman’s work, likeyou have been doing ever since youmarried him, than let you go away withMorgan for one mistaken day. What you’dhave to face with him would kill youquicker than work, and you’d suffer athousand times more sorrow.”

“What do you know about it?” shesneered. “You never loved anybody.That’s the way with you religious fools–you don’t get any fun out of lifeyourselves, and you want to spoileverybody else’s. Well, you’ll not spoil

mine, I tell you. I’ll go to Morgan this verynight, and you can’t stop me!”

“Well, we’ll see about that, Ollie,” hetold her, showing a little temper. “I toldhim that I’d keep you here if I had to tieyou, and I’ll do that, too, if I have to.Isom––”

“Isom, Isom!” she mocked. “Well, tellIsom you spied on me and tell the old foolwhat you saw–tell him, tell him! Tell himall you know, and tell him more! Tell theold devil I hate him, and always did hatehim; tell him I’ve got out of bed in themiddle of the night more than once to getthe ax and kill him in his sleep! Tell him Iwish he was dead and in hell, where hebelongs, and I’m sorry I didn’t send himthere! What do I care about Isom, or you,or anybody else, you spy, you sneaking

spy!”“I’ll go with you to the road if you want

to see if he’s there,” Joe offered.Ollie’s fall from the sanctified place of

irreproachable womanhood had divestedher of all awe in his eyes. He spoke to hernow as he would have reasoned with achild.

“No, I suppose you threatened to goafter Isom, or something like that, and hewent away,” said she. “You couldn’tscare him, he wouldn’t run from you.Tomorrow he’ll send me word, and I’ll goto him in spite of you and Isom andeverything else. I don’t care–I don’t care–you’re mean to me, too! you’re as mean asyou can be!”

She made a quick tempestuous turn fromanger to tears, lifting her arm to her face

and hiding her eyes in the bend of herelbow. Her shoulders heaved; she sobbedin childlike pity for herself and the injurywhich she seemed to think she bore.

Joe put his hand on her shoulder.“Don’t take on that way about it, Ollie,”

said he.“Oh, oh!” she moaned, her hands

pressed to her face now; “why couldn’tyou have been kind to me; why couldn’tyou have said a good word to mesometimes? I didn’t have a friend in theworld, and I was so lonesome and tiredand–and–and–everything!”

Her reproachful appeal wasdisconcerting to Joe. How could he tellher that he had not understood her strivingand yearning to reach him, and that at lastunderstanding, he had been appalled by

the enormity of his own heart’s desire. Hesaid nothing for a little while, but took herby one tear-wet hand and led her awayfrom the door. Near the table he stopped,still holding her hand, stroking it tenderlywith comforting touch.

“Never mind, Ollie,” said he at last;“you go to bed now and don’t think anymore about going away with Morgan. If Ithought it was best for your peace andhappiness for you to go, I’d step out of theway at once. But he’d drag you down,Ollie, lower than any woman you eversaw, for they don’t have that kind ofwomen here. Morgan isn’t as good a manas Isom is, with all his hard ways andstinginess. If he’s honest and honorable,he can wait for you till Isom dies. He’llnot last more than ten or fifteen years

longer, and you’ll be young even then,Ollie. I don’t suppose anybody ever getstoo old to be happy any more than they gettoo old to be sad.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do, Joe,” shesighed.

She had calmed down while he talked.Now she wiped her eyes on her veil,while the last convulsions of sobbingshook her now and then, like thewithdrawing rumble of thunder after astorm.

“I’ll put out the light, Ollie,” said he.“You go on to bed.”

“Oh, Joe, Joe!” said she in a littlepleading, meaningless way; a little way ofreproach and softness.

She lifted her tear-bright eyes, with the

reflection of her subsiding passion inthem, and looked yearningly into his. Olliesuddenly found herself feeling small andyoung, penitent and frail, in the presenceof this quickly developed man. Hisstrength seemed to rise above her, andspread round her, and warm her in itsprotecting folds. There was comfort inhim, and promise.

The wife of the dead viking could turnto the living victor with a smile. It is acomforting faculty that has come downfrom the first mother to the last daughter; itis as ineradicable in the sex as the instinctwhich cherishes fire. Ollie was primitivein her passions and pains. If she could nothave Morgan, perhaps she could yet find acomforter in Joe. She put her free hand onhis shoulder and looked up into his face

again. Tears were on her lashes, her lipswere loose and trembling.

“If you’d be good to me, Joe; if you’donly be good and kind, I could stay,” shesaid.

Joe was moved to tenderness by heringenuous sounding plea. He put his handon her shoulder in a comforting way. Shewas very near him then, and her smallhand, so lately cold and tear-damp, waswarm within his. She threw her head backin expectant attitude; her yearning eyesseemed to be dragging him to her lips.

“I will be good to you, Ollie; just asgood and kind as I know how to be,” hepromised.

She swayed a little nearer; her warm,soft body pressed against him, her brightyoung eyes still striving to draw him down

to her lips.“Oh, Joe, Joe,” she murmured in a

snuggling, contented way.Sweat sprang upon his forehead and his

throbbing temples, so calm and cool but amoment before. He stood trembling, hisdamp elf-locks dangling over his brow.Through the half-open door a little breathof wind threaded in and made the lamp-blaze jump; it rustled outside through thelilac-bushes like the passing of a lady’sgown.

Joe’s voice was husky in his throatwhen he spoke.

“You’d better go to bed, Ollie,” saidhe.

He still clung foolishly to her willinghand as he led her to the door opening to

the stairs.“No, you go on up first, Joe,” she said.

“I want to put the wood in the stove readyto light in the morning, and set a few littlethings out. It’ll give me a minute longer tosleep. You can trust me now, Joe,” sheprotested, looking earnestly into his eyes,“for I’m not going away with Morgannow.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Ollie,”he told her, unfeigned pleasure in hisvoice.

“I want you to promise me you’ll nevertell Isom,” said she.

“I never intended to tell him,” hereplied.

She withdrew her hand from hisquickly, and quickly both of them fled to

his shoulders.“Stoop down,” she coaxed with a

seductive, tender pressure of her hands,“and tell me, Joe.”

Isom’s step fell on the porch. Hecrashed the door back against the wall ashe came in, and Joe and Ollie fell apart inguilty haste. Isom stood for a moment onthe threshold, amazement in his staringeyes and open mouth. Then a cloud of rageswept him, he lifted his huge, hairy fistabove his head like a club.

“I’ll kill you!” he threatened, coveringthe space between him and Joe in twolong strides.

Ollie shrank away, half stooping, fromthe expected blow, her hands raised inappealing defense. Joe put up his openhand as if to check Isom in his assault.

“Hold on, Isom; don’t you hit me,” hesaid.

Whatever Isom’s intention had been, hecontained himself. He stopped, facing Joe,who did not yield an inch.

“Hit you, you whelp!” said Isom, hislips flattened back from his teeth. “I’ll domore than hit you. You–” He turned onOllie: “I saw you. You’ve disgraced me!I’ll break every bone in your body! I’llthrow you to the hogs!”

“If you’ll hold on a minute and listen toreason, Isom, you’ll find there’s nothing atall like you think there is,” said Joe.“You’re making a mistake that you may besorry for.”

“Mistake!” repeated Isom bitterly, as ifhis quick-rising rage had sunk again andleft him suddenly weak. “Yes, the mistake

I made was when I took you in to save youfrom the poorhouse and give you a home. Igo away for a day and come back to findyou two clamped in each other’s arms soclose together I couldn’t shove a handbetween you. Mistake––”

“That’s not so, Isom,” Joe protestedindignantly.

“Heaven and hell, didn’t I see you!”roared Isom. “There’s law for you two if Iwant to take it on you, but what’s thepunishment of the law for what you’vedone on me? Law! No, by God! I’ll makemy own law for this case. I’ll kill both ofyou if I’m spared to draw breath fiveminutes more!”

Isom lifted his long arm in witness ofhis terrible intention, and cast his glaringeyes about the room as if in search of a

weapon to begin his work.“I tell you, Isom, nothing wrong ever

passed between me and your wife,”insisted Joe earnestly. “You’re making aterrible mistake.”

Ollie, shrinking against the wall, lookedimploringly at Joe. He had promisednever to tell Isom what he knew, but howwas he to save himself now withoutbetraying her? Was he man enough to faceit out and bear the strain, rush upon oldIsom and stop him in his mad intention, orwould he weaken and tell all he knew,here at the very first test of his strength?She could not read his intention in hisface, but his eyes were frowning under hisgathered brows as he watched every movethat old Isom made. He was leaningforward a little, his arms were raised, like

a wrestler waiting for the clinch.Isom’s face was as gray as ashes that

have lain through many a rain. He stoodwhere he had stopped at Joe’s warning,and now was pulling up his sleeves as ifto begin his bloody work.

“You two conspired against me fromthe first,” he charged, his voice trembling;“you conspired to eat me holler, and nowyou conspire to bring shame and disgraceto my gray hairs. I trust you and depend onyou, and I come home––”

Isom’s arraignment broke off suddenly.He stood with arrested jaw, gazing

intently at the table. Joe followed his eyes,but saw nothing on the table to hold aman’s words and passions suspended inthat strange manner. Nothing was there butthe lamp and Joe’s old brown hat. That lay

there, its innocent, battered crownpresenting to Joe’s eyes, its broad andpliant brim tilted up on the farther side asif resting on a fold of itself.

It came to Joe in an instant that Isom’sanger had brought paralysis upon him. Hestarted forward to assist him, Isom’s nameon his lips, when Isom leaped to the tablewith a smothered cry in his throat. Heseemed to hover over the table a moment,leaning with his breast upon it, gatheringsome object to him and hugging it underhis arm.

“Great God!” panted Isom in shockedvoice, standing straight between them, hisleft arm pressed to his breast as if itcovered a mortal wound. He twisted hisneck and glared at Joe, but he did notdisclose the thing that he had gathered

from the table.“Great God!” said he again, in the same

shocked, panting voice.“Isom,” began Joe, advancing toward

him.Isom retreated quickly. He ran to the

other end of the table where he stood,bending forward, hugging his secret to hisbreast as if he meant to defend it with theblood of his heart. He stretched out hisfree hand to keep Joe away.

“Stand off! Stand off!” he warned.Again Isom swept his wild glance

around the room. Near the door, on twoprongs of wood nailed to the wall, hungthe gun of which Joe had spoken toMorgan in his warning. It was a Kentuckyrifle, long barreled, heavy, of two

generations past. Isom used it for hawks,and it hung there loaded and capped fromyear’s beginning to year’s end. Isomseemed to realize when he saw it, for thefirst time in that season of insane rage, thatit offered to his hand a weapon. He leapedtoward it, reaching up his hand.

“I’ll kill you now!” said he.In one long spring Isom crossed from

where he stood and seized the rifle by themuzzle.

“Stop him, stop him!” screamed Ollie,pressing her hands to her ears.

“Isom, Isom!” warned Joe, leaping afterhim.

Isom was wrenching at the gun to freethe breech from the fork when Joe caughthim by the shoulder and tried to drag him

back.“Look out–the hammer!” he cried.But quicker than the strength of Joe’s

young arm, quicker than old Isom’s wrath,was the fire in that corroded cap; quickerthan the old man’s hand, the powder in thenipple of the ancient gun.

Isom fell at the report, his left hand stillclutching the secret thing to his bosom, hisright clinging to the rifle-barrel. He lay onhis back where he had crashed down, asstraight as if stretched to a line. Hisstaring eyes rolled, all white; his mouthstood open, as if in an unuttered cry.

CHAPTER VIIDELIVERANCE

Joe, stunned by the sudden tragedy, stoodfor a moment as he had stopped when helaid his hand on Isom’s shoulder. Ollie, onthe other side of the fallen man, leanedover and peered into his face.

In that moment a wild turmoil of hopesand fears leaped in her hot brain. Was itdeliverance, freedom? Or was it onlyanother complication of shame anddisgrace? Was he dead, slain by his ownhand in the baseness of his own heart? Orwas he only hurt, to rise up againpresently with revilings and accusations,to make the future more terrible than the

past. Did this end it; did this come inanswer to her prayers for a bolt to fall onhim and wither him in his tracks?

Even in that turgid moment, when sheturned these speculations, guilty hopes,wild fears, in her mind, Isom’s eyelidsquivered, dropped; and the soundingbreath in his nostrils ceased.

Isom Chase lay dead upon the floor. Inthe crook of his elbow rested a little time-fingered canvas bag, one corner of whichhad broken open in his fall, out of whichpoured the golden gleanings of his hardand bitter years.

On the planks beneath his shoulder-blades, where his feet had come and gonefor forty years, all leached and whitenedby the strong lye of countless scrubbingsat the hands of the old wife and the new,

his blood ran down in a little stream. Itgathered in a cupped and hollowed plank,and stood there in a little pool, glistening,black. His wife saw her white facereflected in it as she raised up frompeering into his blank, dead eyes.

“Look at his blood!” said she, hoarselywhispering. “Look at it–look at it!”

“Isom! Isom!” called Joe softly, a longpause between his words, as if summoninga sleeper. He stooped over, touchingIsom’s shoulder.

There was a trickle of blood on Isom’sbeard, where the rifle ball had struck himin the throat; back of his head that vitalstream was wasting, enlarging the pool inthe hollowed plank near Ollie’s foot.

“He’s dead!” she whispered.

Again, in a flash, that quick feeling oflightness, almost joyful liberty, lifted her.Isom was dead, dead! What she hadprayed for had fallen. Cruel, hard-palmedIsom, who had gripped her tender throat,was dead there on the floor at her feet!Dead by his own act, in the anger of hisloveless heart.

“I’m afraid he is,” said Joe, dazed andaghast.

The night wind came in through theopen door and vexed the lamp withharassing breath. Its flame darted like aserpent’s tongue, and Joe, fearful that itmight go out and leave them in the darkwith that bleeding corpse, crossed oversoftly and closed the door.

Ollie stood there, her hands clenched ather sides, no stirring of pity in her heart

for her husband with the stain of bloodupon his harsh, gray beard. In that momentshe was supremely selfish. The possibilityof accusation or suspicion in connectionwith his death did not occur to her. Shewas too shallow to look ahead to thatunpleasant contingency. The bright lure ofliberty was in her eyes; it was dancing inher brain. As she looked at Joe’s back themoment he stood with hand on the door,her one thought was:

“Will he tell?”Joe came back and stood beside the

lifeless form of Isom, looking down at himfor a moment, pity and sorrow in his face.Then he tiptoed far around the body andtook up his hat from the floor where it hadfallen in Isom’s scramble for the sack ofgold.

“What are we going to do?” askedOllie, suddenly afraid.

“I’ll go after the doctor, but he can’thelp him any,” said Joe. “I’ll wake up theGreenings as I go by and send some ofthem over to stay with you.”

“Don’t leave me here with it–don’tleave me!” begged Ollie. “I can’t stayhere in the house with it alone!”

She shrank away from her husband’sbody, unlovely in death as he had beenunloved in life, and clung to Joe’s arm.

But a little while had passed since Isomfell–perhaps not yet five minutes–butsomeone had heard the shot, someone wascoming, running, along the hard pathbetween gate and kitchen door. Olliestarted.

“Listen!” she said. “They’re coming!What will you say?”

“Go upstairs,” he commanded, pushingher toward the door, harshness in hismanner and words. “It’ll not do for you tobe found here all dressed up that way.”

“What will you tell them–what will yousay?” she insisted, whispering.

“Go upstairs; let me do the talking,” heanswered, waving her away.

A heavy foot struck the porch, a heavyhand beat a summons on the door. Ollie’swhite dress gleamed a moment in the darkpassage leading to the stairs, the flyingend of her veil glimmered.

“Come in,” called Joe.Sol Greening, their neighbor, whose

gate was almost opposite Isom’s, whose

barn was not eighty rods from the kitchendoor, stood panting in the lamplight, hisheavy beard lifting and falling on hischest.

“What–what’s happened–who was thatshootin’–Isom! God A’mighty, is he hurt?”

“Dead,” said Joe dully, standing hat inhand. He looked dazedly at the excitedman in the door, whose mouth was openas he stared fearfully at the corpse.

“How? Who done it?” asked Greening,coming in on tiptoe, his voice lowered toa whisper, in the cautious fashion ofpeople who move in the vicinity of thesound-sleeping dead. The tread of livingman never more would disturb old IsomChase, but Sol Greening moved as silentlyas a blowing leaf.

“Who done it?” he repeated.

“He did,” answered Joe.“He done it!” repeated Greening,

looking from the rifle, still clutched inIsom’s hand, to the gold in the crook of hisarm, and from that to Joe’s blanched face.“He done it!”

“Jerking down the gun,” explained Joe,pointing to the broken rack.

“Jerkin’ down the gun! What’d hewant–look–look at all that money! Thesack’s busted–it’s spillin’ all over him!”

“He’s dead,” said Joe weakly, “and Iwas going after the doctor.”

“Stone dead,” said Greening, bendingover the body; “they ain’t a puff of breathleft in him. The doctor couldn’t do him nogood, Joe, but I reckon––”

Greening straightened up and faced Joe,

sternly.“Where’s Missis Chase?” he asked.“Upstairs,” said Joe, pointing.“Does she know? Who was here when

it happened?”“Isom and I,” said Joe.“God A’mighty!” said Greening,

looking at Joe fearfully, “just you andhim?”

“We were alone,” said Joe, meetingGreening’s eyes unfalteringly. “We hadsome words, and Isom lost his temper. Hejumped for the gun and I tried to stop him,but he jerked it by the barrel and thehammer caught.”

“Broke his neck,” said Greening, mouthand eyes wide open; “broke it clean!Where’d that money come from?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe; “I didn’t seeit till he fell.”

“Words!” said Greening, catching at itsuddenly, as if what Joe had said had onlythen penetrated his understanding. “Youand him had some words!”

“Yes, we had some words,” said Joe.“Where’s Missis Chase?” demanded

Greening again, turning his eyessuspiciously around the room.

“Upstairs, I told you Sol,” replied Joe.“She went to bed early.”

“Hush!” cautioned Greening, holding uphis hand, listening intently. “I hear hermovin’ around. Let me talk to her.”

He tiptoed to the door at the foot of thestairs, and listened again; tiptoed back tothe outer portal, which he had left

swinging behind him, and closed it gently.There was no sound from above now toindicate that Ollie was awake. Sol stoodnear Isom’s body, straining and listening,his hand to his ear.

“She must ’a’ been turnin’ over in bed,”said he. “Well, I guess I’ll have to callher. I hate to do it, but she’s got to betold.”

“Yes, she must be told,” said Joe.Sol stood as if reflecting on it a little

while. Joe was on the other side of Isom’sbody, near the table. Both of them lookeddown into his bloodless face.

“You had words!” said Greening,looking sternly at Joe. “What about?”

“It was a matter between him and me,Sol, it don’t concern anybody else,” said

Joe in a manner of dignity and reserve thatwas blunter than his words. Sol was notimpressed by this implied rebuke, and hintto mind his own business.

“That ain’t no answer,” said he.“Well, it will have to do for you, Sol,”

said Joe.“I don’t know about that,” declared Sol.

“If you can’t give me the straight of it, inplain words, I’ll have to take you up.”

Joe stood thoughtfully silent a littlewhile. Then he raised his head and lookedat Sol steadily.

“If there’s any arresting to be done–” hebegan, but checked himself abruptly there,as if he had reconsidered what he startedto say. “Hadn’t we better pick Isom up offthe floor?” he suggested.

“No, no; don’t touch him,” Greeninginterposed hurriedly. “Leave him lay forthe coroner; that’s the law.”

“All right.”“I’ll have to tell Missis Chase before

we go,” said Sol.“Yes, you must tell her,” Joe agreed.Sol rapped on the woodwork of the

wall at the bottom of the stairs with hisbig knuckles. The sound rose sudden andechoing in the house. Ollie was heardopening her door.

“Missis Chase–oh, Missis Chase!”called Greening.

“Who’s that, who’s that?” came Ollie’svoice, tremulous and frightened, littleabove a whisper, from above.

“It’s Sol Greening. Don’t come down

here, don’t come down!”“What was that noise? It sounded like a

gun,” said Ollie, a bit nearer the head ofthe stairs, her words broken anddisjointed.

“Something’s happened, somethingmighty bad,” said Sol. “You stay rightwhere you are till I send the old womanover to you–do you hear me?–stay rightthere!”

“Oh, what is it, what is it?” moanedOllie. “Joe–where’s Joe? Call him, Mr.Greening, call Joe!”

“He’s here,” Sol assured her, his voicefull of portent “he’s goin’ away with mefor a little while. I tell you it’s terrible,you must stay right up there.”

“Oh, I’m so afraid–I’m so afraid!” said

Ollie, coming nearer.“Go back! Go back!” commanded

Greening.“If you’ll only stick to it that way,”

thought Joe as Ollie’s moans sounded inhis ears.

“Was it robbers–is somebody hurt?”she asked.

“Yes, somebody’s hurt, and hurt bad,”said Greening, “but you can’t do no goodby comin’ down here. You stay right theretill the old woman comes over; it’ll onlybe a minute.”

“Let me go with you. Oh, Mr. Greening,don’t leave me here alone!” she implored.

“There’s nothing to hurt you, Ollie,”said Joe. “You do as Sol tells you andstay here. Go to your room and shut the

door, and wait till Mrs. Greening comes.”Sol leaned into the staircase and

listened until he heard her door close.Then he turned and shut the kitchenwindow and the door leading into thebody of the house, leaving the burninglamp on the table to keep watch over Isomand his money.

“We’ll go out the front way,” said Solto Joe. “Nothing must be touched in thatroom till the coroner orders it. Now, don’tyou try to dodge me, Joe.”

“I’ve got no reason to want to dodgeany man,” said Joe.

“Well, for your own sake, as well asyour old mother’s, I hope to God youain’t!” said Sol. “But this here thing looksmighty bad for somebody, Joe. I’m goin’to take you over to Bill Frost’s and turn

you over to the law.”Joe made no comment, but led the way

around the house. At the kitchen windowGreening laid a restraining hand on Joe’sshoulder and stopped him, while helooked in at the corpse of Isom Chase.

“Him and me, we served on the samejury this afternoon,” said Sol, noddingtoward the window as he turned away. “Irode to overtake him on the way home, buthe had the start of me; and I was just goin’in the gate when I heard that shot. I poledright over here. On the same jury, and nowhe’s dead!”

As they approached the gate Joe lookedback, the events of the past few minutesand the shock of the tragedy, which hadfallen as swift as a lightning stroke,stunning him out of his usual cool

reasoning.There lay the house, its roof white in

the moonlight, a little stream of yellowcoming through the kitchen window,striking the lilac-bushes and fallingbrokenly on the grass beyond. There wasreality in that; but in this whirl of eventswhich crowded his mind there was notangible thing to lay hold upon.

That Isom was dead on the kitchen floorseemed impossible and unreal, like anevent in a dream which one strugglesagainst the terror of, consoling himself, yetnot convincingly, as he fights its sadillusions, with the argument that it isnothing but a vision, and that with wakingit will pass away.

What was this awful thing with whichSol Greening had charged him, over

which the whole neighborhood soon musttalk and conjecture?

Murder!There was no kinder word. Yet the full

terror of its meaning was not over him, forhis senses still swirled and felt numb inthe suddenness of the blow. He had notmeant that this accusation should fastenupon him when he sent Ollie from theroom; he had not thought that far ahead.His one concern was that she should notbe found there, dressed and ready to go,and the story of her weakness and follygiven heartlessly to the world.

And Curtis Morgan–where was he, theman to blame for all this thing? Not faraway, thought Joe, driving that white roadin security, perhaps, even that very hour,while he, who had stood between him and

his unholy desires, was being led away bySol Greening like a calf in a rope. Theywere going to charge him with the murderof Isom Chase and take him away to jail.

How far would Morgan permit them togo? Would he come forward to bear hisshare of it, or would he skulk away like acoward and leave him, the bondman, todefend the name of his dead master’s wifeat the cost of his own honor and liberty,perhaps his life?

All that had gone before Isom threw hislife away in that moment of blind anger,must be laid bare if he was to free himselfof the shadow of suspicion. It was not thepart of an honorable man to seek his owncomfort and safety at the cost of awoman’s name, no matter how unworthyhe knew her to be, while that name and

fame still stood flawless before the world.In the absence of some other avenue tovindication, a gentleman must suffer insilence, even to death. It would be cruel,unjust, and hard to bear, but that was theonly way. He wondered if Ollieunderstood.

But there were certain humiliations andindignities which a gentleman could notbend his neck to; and being led away byan inferior man like Sol Greening to bedelivered up, just as if he thought that hemight have run away if given an opening,was one of them. Sol had passed onthrough the open gate, which he had notstopped to close when he ran in, before henoticed that Joe was not following. Helooked back. Joe was standing inside thefence, his arms folded across his chest.

“Come on here!” ordered Sol.“No, I’m not going any farther with you,

Sol,” said Joe quietly. “If there’s anyarresting to be done, I guess I can do itmyself.”

Greening was a self-important man inhis small-bore way, who saw in thisnight’s tragedy fine material for increasinghis consequence, at least temporarily, inthat community. The first man on thebloody scene, the man to shut up the roomfor the coroner, the man to make the arrestand deliver the murderer to the constable–all within half an hour. It was a distinctionwhich Greening did not feel like yielding.

“Come on here, I tell you!” hecommanded again.

“If you want to get on your horse and goafter Bill, I’ll wait right here till he

comes,” said Joe; “but I’ll not go anyfarther with you. I didn’t shoot Isom, Sol,and you know it. If you don’t want to goafter Bill, then I’ll go on over there aloneand tell him what’s happened. If he wantsto arrest me then, he can do it.”

Seeing that by this arrangement much ofhis glory would get away from him,Greening stepped forward and reached outhis hand, as if to compel submission. Joelifted his own hand to intercept it withwarning gesture.

“No, don’t you touch me, Sol!” hecautioned.

Greening let his hand fall. He steppedback a pace, Joe’s subdued, calm warningpenetrating his senses like the sound of ablow on an anvil. Last week this ganglingstrip of a youngster was nothing but a boy,

fetching and carrying in Isom Chase’sbarn-yard. Tonight, big and bony andbroad-shouldered, he was a man, with thesame outward gentleness over the ironinside of him as old Peter Newbolt beforehim; the same soft word in his mouth ashis Kentucky father, who had, without oathor malediction, shot dead a KansasRedleg, in the old days of border strife,for spitting on his boot.

“Will you go, or shall I?” asked Joe.Greening made a show of considering it

a minute.“Well, Joe, you go on over and tell him

yourself,” said he, putting on the front ofgenerosity and confidence, “I know youwon’t run off.”

“If I had anything to run off for, I’d goas quick as anybody, I guess,” said Joe.

“I’ll go and fetch the old lady over tokeep company with Mrs. Chase,” said Sol,hurriedly striking across the road.

Joe remained standing there a littlewhile. The growing wind, which markedthe high tide of night, lifted his hat-brimand let the moonlight fall upon histroubled face. Around him was the peaceof the sleeping earth, with its ripe harvestin its hand; the scents of ripe leaves andfruit came out of the orchard; the breath ofcuring clover from the fields.

Joe brought a horse from the barn andleaped on its bare back. He turned into thehighroad, lashing the animal with thehalter, and galloped away to summonConstable Bill Frost.

Past hedges he rode, where cricketdrummers beat the long roll for the muster

of winter days; past gates letting intofields, clamped and chained to their postsas if jealous of the plenty which theyguarded; past farmsteads set in darkforests of orchard trees and tallwindbreaks of tapering poplar, wherenever a light gleamed from a pane, wheresons and daughters, worn husbandmen andweary wives, lay soothed in honestslumber; past barn-yards, where cattlesighed as they lay in the moonshinechamping upon their cuds; down intoswales, where the air was damp and cold,like a wet hand on the face; up to hill-crests, over which the perfumes of autumnwere blowing–the spices of goldenrodand ragweed, the elusive scent of hedgeorange, the sweet of curing fodder in theshock; past peace and contentment, and the

ripe reward of men’s summer toil.Isom Chase was dead; stark, white,

with blood upon his beard.There a dog barked, far away, raising a

ripple on the placid night; there a cockcrowed, and there another caught his cry;it passed on, on, fading away eastward,traveling like an alarm, like a spreadingwave, until it spent itself against themargin of breaking day.

Isom Chase was dead, with an armful ofgold upon his breast.

Aye, Isom Chase was dead. Back therein the still house his limbs were stiffeningupon his kitchen floor. Isom Chase wasdead on the eve of the most bountifulharvest his lands had yielded him in allhis toil-freighted years. Dead, with hisfields around him; dead, with the maize

dangling heavy ears in the whitemoonlight; dead, with the gold of pumpkinlurking like unminted treasure in themargin of his field. Dead, with fat cattle inhis pastures, fat swine in his confines,sleek horses in his barn-stalls, fatcockerels on his perch; dead, with a youngwife shrinking among the shadows abovehis cold forehead, her eyes unclouded by atear, her panting breast undisturbed by asigh of pity or of pain.

CHAPTER VIIIWILL HE TELL?

Constable Bill Frost was not a man ofsuch acute suspicion as Sol Greening. Hewas a thin, slow man with a high, sharpnose and a sprangling, yellow mustachewhich extended broadly, like the horns ofa steer. It did not enter his mind to connectJoe with the tragedy in a criminal way asthey rode together back to the farm.

When they arrived, they found SolGreening and his married son Dan sittingon the front steps. Mrs. Greening wasupstairs, comforting the young widow,who was “racked like a fiddle,” accordingto Sol.

Sol took the constable around to thewindow and pointed out the body of Isomstretched beside the table.

“You’re a officer of the law,” said Sol,“and these here primisis is now in yourhands and charge, but I don’t think youorto go in that room. I think you orto leavehim lay, just the way he dropped, for thecoroner. That’s the law.”

Frost was of the same opinion. He hadno stomach for prying around dead men,anyhow.

“We’ll leave him lay, Sol,” said he.“And it’s my opinion that you orto put

handcuffs on that feller,” said Sol.“Which feller?” asked Bill.“That boy Joe,” said Sol.“Well, I ain’t got any, and I wouldn’t

put ’em on him if I had,” said Bill. “Hetold me all about how it happened whenwe was comin’ over. Why, you don’tsuspiciont he done it, do you, Sol?”

“Circumstantial evidence,” said Sol,fresh from jury service and full of the law,“is dead ag’in’ him, Bill. If I was you I’dslap him under arrest. They had words,you know.”

“Yes; he told me they did,” said Bill.“But he didn’t tell you what them words

was about,” said Sol deeply.The constable turned to Sol, the shaft of

suspicion working its way through thesmall door of his mind.

“By ganny!” said he.“I’d take him up and hand him over to

the sheriff in the morning,” advised Sol.

“I reckon I better do it,” Frost agreed,almost knocked breathless by theimportance of the thing he had overlooked.

So they laid their heads together tocome to a proper method of procedure,and presently they marched around thecorner of the house, shoulder to shoulder,as if prepared to intercept and overwhelmJoe if he tried to make a dash for liberty.

They had left Joe sitting on the stepswith Dan, and now they hurried around asif they expected to find his place emptyand Dan stretched out, mangled andbleeding. But Joe was still there, infriendly conversation with Dan, showingno intention of running away. Frostadvanced and laid his hand on Joe’sshoulder.

“Joe Newbolt,” said he, “I put you

under arrest on the suspiciont of shootin’and murderin’ Isom Chase in cold blood.”

It was a formula contrived between theconstable and Sol. Sol had insisted on the“cold blood.” That was important andnecessary, he declared. Omit that inmaking the arrest, and you had no case. Itwould fall through.

Joe stood up, placing himself at theimmediate disposal of the constable,which was rather embarrassing to Bill.

“Well, Bill, if you think it’s necessary,all right,” said he.

“Form of law demands it,” said Sol.“But you might wait and see what the

coroner thinks about it,” suggested Joe.“Perliminaries,” said Greening in his

deep way.

Then the question of what to do with theprisoner until morning arose. Joe pointedout that they could make no disposition ofhim, except to hold him in custody, untilthe coroner had held an inquest into thecase and a conclusion had been reachedby the jury. He suggested that they allowhim to go to bed and get some neededsleep.

That seemed to be a very sensiblesuggestion, according to Bill’s view of it.But Sol didn’t know whether it would be aregular proceeding and in strict accordwith the forms of law. Indeed, he was ofthe opinion, after deliberating a while, thatit would weaken the case materially. Hewas strongly in favor of handcuffs, or, inthe absence of regulation manacles, a half-inch rope.

After a great deal of discussion, duringwhich Frost kept his hand officiously onJoe’s shoulder, it was agreed that theprisoner should be allowed to go to bed.He was to be lodged in the spare roomupstairs, the one lately occupied byMorgan. Frost escorted him to it, andlocked the door.

“Is they erry winder in that room?”asked Sol, when Bill came back.

“Reckon so,” said Frost, startingnervously. “I didn’t look.”

“Better see,” said Sol, getting up toinvestigate.

They went round to the side of thehouse. Yes, there was a window, and itwas wide open.

But any doubt that the prisoner might

have escaped through it was soon quietedby the sound of his snore. Joe had thrownhimself across the bed, boots and all, andwas already shoulder-deep in sleep. Theydecided that, at daylight, Sol’s son shouldride to the county-seat, seven milesdistant, and notify the coroner.

During the time they spent betweenJoe’s retirement and daybreak, Solimproved the minutes by arraigning,convicting, and condemning Joe for themurder of old Isom. He did it soimpressively that he had Constable Froston edge over the tremendousresponsibility that rested on his back. Billwas in a sweat, although the night wascool. He tiptoed around, listening, spying,prying; he stood looking up at Joe’swindow until his neck ached; he explored

the yard for hidden weapons and treasure,and he peered and poked with a rake-handle into shrubbery and vines.

They could hear the women upstairstalking once in a while, and now and againthey caught the sound of a piteous moan.

“She ain’t seen him,” said Sol; “Iwouldn’t let her come down. She may notbe in no condition to look on a muss likethat, her a young woman and only marrieda little while.”

Bill agreed on that, as he agreed onevery hypothesis which Sol propoundedout of his wisdom, now that his officialheat had been raised.

“If I hadn’t got here when I did he’d ’a’skinned out with all of that money,” saidSol. “He was standin’ there with his hat inhis hand, all ready to scoop it up.”

“How’d he come to go after me?” askedBill.

“Well, folks don’t always do things ontheir own accord,” said Sol, giving Bill anunmistakable look.

“Oh, that was the way of it,” noddedBill. “I thought it was funny if he––”

“He knowed he didn’t have a ghost of achance to git away between me and you,”said Sol.

Morning came, and with it rode Sol’sson to fetch the coroner.

Sol had established himself in the caseso that he would lose very little glory inthe day’s revelations, and there remainedone pleasant duty yet which he proposedto take upon himself. That was nothingless than carrying the news of the tragedy

and Joe’s arrest to Mrs. Newbolt in herlonely home at the foot of the hill.

Sol’s son spread the news as he rodethrough the thin morning to the county-seat,drawing up at barn-yard gates, hailing theneighbors on the way to their fields,pouring the amazing story into the avidears of all who met him. Sol carried thestory in the opposite direction, trotting hishorse along full of leisurely importanceand the enjoyment of the distinction whichhad fallen on him through his earlyconnection with the strange event. Whenthey heard it, men turned back from theirfields and hastened to the Chase farm, topeer through the kitchen window andshock their toil-blunted senses in thehorror of the scene.

Curiosity is stronger than thrift in most

men, and those of that community were nobetter fortified against it than others oftheir kind. Long before Sol Greening’sgreat lubberly son reached the county-seat,a crowd had gathered at the farmstead ofIsom Chase. Bill Frost, now bristling withthe dignity of his official power, movedamong them soberly, the object of greatrespect as the living, moving embodimentof the law.

Yesterday he was only Bill Frost, atenant of rented land, filling an office thatwas only a name; this morning he wasConstable Bill Frost, with the power anddignity of the State of Missouri behindhim, guarding a house of mystery anddeath. Law and authority had transformedhim overnight, settling upon him as thespirit used to come upon the prophets in

the good old days.Bill had only to stretch out his arm, and

strong men would fall back, pale andawed, away from the wall of the house; hehad but to caution them in a low word tokeep hands off everything, to be instantlyobeyed. They drew away into the yard andstood in low-voiced groups, the processof thought momentarily stunned by thisterrible thing.

“Ain’t it awful?” a graybeard wouldwhisper to a stripling youth.

“Ain’t it terrible?” would come thereply.

“Well, well, well! Old Isom!”That was as far as any of them could go.

Then they would walk softly, scarcelybreathing, to the window and peep in

again.Joe, unhailed and undisturbed, was

spinning out his sleep. Mrs. Greeningbrought coffee and refreshments for theyoung widow from her own kitchen acrossthe road, and the sun rose and drove themists out of the hollows, as a shepherddrives his flocks out to graze upon the hill.

As Sol Greening hitched his horse tothe Widow Newbolt’s fence, he heard hersinging with long-drawn quavers andlingering semibreves:

There is a fountain filled withblood,

Drawn from Immanuel’s veins....She appeared at the kitchen door, a pan inher hand, a flock of expectant chickenscraning their necks to see what she had to

offer, at the instant that Sol came aroundthe corner of the house. She all but let thepan fall in her amazement, and the songwas cut off between her lips in the middleof a word, for it was not more than sixo’clock, uncommonly early for visitors.

“Mercy me, Sol Greening, you give mean awful jump!” said she.

“Well, I didn’t aim to,” said Sol,turning over in his mind the speech that hehad drawn up in the last uninterruptedstage of his journey over.

Mrs. Newbolt looked at him sharply,turning her head a little with a quick, pertmovement, not unlike one of her hens.

“Is anybody sick over your way?” sheasked.

She could not account for the early visit

in any other manner. People commonlycame for her at all hours of the day andnight when there was somebody sick andin need of a herb-wise nurse. She hadhelped a great many of the young ones ofthat community into the world, and she hadeased the pains of many old ones whowere quitting it. So she thought thatGreening’s visit must have something todo with either life or death.

“No, nobody just azackly sick,” dodgedGreening.

“Well, laws my soul, you make amighty mystery over it! What’s the matter–can’t you talk?”

“But I can’t say, Missis Newbolt, thateverybody’s just azackly well,” said he.

“Some of your folks?”

“No, not none of mine,” said Sol.“Then whose?” she inquired

impatiently.“Isom’s,” said he.“You don’t mean my Joe?” she asked

slowly, a shadow of pain drawing herface.

“I mean Isom,” said Sol.“Isom?” said she, relieved. “Why

didn’t Joe come after me?” Before Solcould adjust his program to meet thisunexpected exigency, she demanded:“Well, what’s the matter with Isom?”

“Dead,” said Sol, dropping his voiceimpressively.

“You don’t mean–well, shades ofmercy, Isom dead! What was it–cholera-morbus?”

“Killed,” said Sol; “shot down with hisown gun and killed as dead as a dornix.”

“His own gun! Well, sakes–who doneit?”

“Only one man knows,” said Sol,shaking his head solemnly. “I’ll tell youhow it was.”

Sol started away back at the summonsto jury service, worked up to the case inwhich he and Isom had sat together,followed Isom then along the road home,and galloped to overtake him. He arrivedat his gate–all in his long and completenarrative–again, as he had done in realitythe night past; he heard the shot in Isom’shouse; he leaped to the ground; he ran. Hesaw a light in the kitchen of Isom’s house,but the door was closed; he knocked, andsomebody called to him to enter. He

opened the door and saw Isom lying there,still and bloody, money–gold money–allover him, and a man standing there besidehim. There was nobody else in the room.

“Shades of mercy!” she gasped. “Whowas that man?”

Sol looked at her pityingly. He put hishand to his forehead as if it gave him painto speak.

“It was your Joe,” said he.She sighed, greatly lightened and

relieved.“Oh, then Joe he told you how it

happened?” said she.“Ma’am,” said Sol impressively, “he

said they was alone in the kitchen when ithappened; he said him and Isom had somewords, and Isom he reached up to pull

down the gun, and the hammer caught, andit went off and shot him. That’s what Joetold me, ma’am.”

“Well, Sol Greening, you talk like youdidn’t believe him!” she scorned. “If Joesaid that, it’s so.”

“I hope to God it is!” said Sol, drawinga great breath.

If Sol had looked for tears, his eyeswere cheated; if he had listened forscreams, wailings, and moanings, his earswere disappointed. Sarah Newbolt stoodstraight and haughtily scornful in herkitchen door, her dark eyes bright betweentheir snapping lids.

“Where’s Joe?” she asked sternly.“He’s over there,” said Sol, feeling that

he had made a noise like a peanut-bag

which one inflates and smashes in thepalm in the expectation of startling theworld.

“Have they took him up?”“Well, you see, Bill Frost’s kind of

keepin’ his eye on him till the inquest,”explained Sol.

“Yes, and I could name the man that puthim up to it,” said she.

“Well, circumstantial evidence–” beganSol.

“Oh, circumstance your granny!” shestopped him pettishly.

Mrs. Newbolt emptied her pan amongthe scrambling fowls by turning itsuddenly upside down. That done, shereached behind her and put it on the table.Her face had grown hard and severe, and

her eyes were fierce.“Wouldn’t believe my boy!” said she

bitterly. “Are you going over that waynow?”

“Guess I’ll be ridin’ along over.”“Well, you tell Joe that I’ll be there as

quick as shank’s horses can carry me,” shesaid, turning away from the door, leavingSol to gather what pleasure he was ableout of the situation.

She lost no time in primping andpreparing, but was on the road before Solhad gone a quarter of a mile.

Mrs. Newbolt cut across fields,arriving at the Chase farm almost as soonas Sol Greening did on his strawberryroan. The coroner had not come when shegot there; Bill Frost allowed Joe to come

down to the unused parlor of old Isom’shouse to talk with her. Frost showed adisposition to linger within the room andhear what was said, but she pushed himout.

“I’ll not let him run off, Bill Frost,”said she. “If he’d wanted to run, if he’dhad anything to run from, he could ’a’gone last night, couldn’t he, you dunce?”

She closed the door, and no word ofwhat passed between mother and sonreached the outside of it, although BillFrost strained his ear against it, listening.

When the coroner arrived in the middleof the forenoon he found no difficulty inobtaining a jury to inquire into Isom’sdeath. The major and minor maleinhabitants of the entire neighborhoodwere assembled there, every qualified

man of them itching to sit on the jury. Asthe coroner had need of but six, and thesebeing soon chosen, the others had nofurther pleasure to look forward to savethe inquiry into the tragedy.

After examining the wound whichcaused Isom’s death, the coroner hadordered the body removed from thekitchen floor. The lamp was still burningon the table, and the coroner blew it out;the gold lay scattered on the floor where ithad fallen, and he gathered it up and put itin the little sack.

When the coroner went to the parlor toconvene the inquest, the crowd packedafter him. Those who were not able to getinto the room clustered in a bunch at thedoor, and protruded themselves in at thewindows, silent and expectant.

Joe sat with his mother on one hand,Constable Frost on the other, and acrossthe room was Ollie, wedged between fatMrs. Sol Greening and her bony daughter-in-law, who claimed the office ofministrants on the ground of priority aboveall the gasping, sympathetic, andexclaiming females who had arrived afterthem.

Ollie was pale and exhausted inappearance, her face drawn andbloodless, like that of one who wakes outof an anesthetic after a surgical operationupon some vital part. Her eyes werehollowed, her nostrils pinched, but therewas no trace of tears upon her cheeks. Theneighbors said it was dry grief, thedeepest and most lasting that racks thehuman heart. They pitied her, so young and

fair, so crushed and bowed under thatsudden, dark sorrow.

Mrs. Greening had thrown somethingblack over the young widow’s shoulders,of which she seemed unaware. It keptslipping and falling down, revealing herwhite dress, and Mrs. Greening keptadjusting it with motherly hand. Sittingbent, like an old woman, Ollie twisted andwound her nervous hot fingers in her lap.Now and then she lifted her eyes to Joe’s,as if struggling to read what intention laybehind the pale calm of his face.

No wonder she looked at him wild andfearful, people said. It was more thananybody could understand, that suddendevelopment of fierce passion andtreachery in a boy who always had beenso shy and steady. No wonder she gazed at

him that way, poor thing!Of course they did not dream how far

they were from interpreting that look in theyoung widow’s eyes. There was onequestion in her life that morning, and oneonly, it seemed. It stood in front of thefuture and blocked all thought of it like aheavy door. Over and over it revolved inher mind. It was written in fire in heraching brain.

When they put Joe Newbolt on thewitness-stand and asked him how ithappened, would he stand true to his firstintention and protect her, or would hebetray it all?

That was what troubled Ollie. She didnot know, and in his face there was noanswer.

Sol Greening was the first witness. He

told again to the jury of his neighbors thestory which he had gone over a score oftimes that morning. Mrs. Newbolt noddedwhen he related what Joe had told him, asif to say there was no doubt about that; Joehad told her the same thing. It was true.

The coroner, a quick, sharp little manwith a beard of unnatural blackness, thickeyebrows and sleek hair, helped himalong with a question now and then.

“There was nobody in the room but JoeNewbolt when you arrived?”

“Nobody else–no livin’ body,” repliedSol.

“No other living body. And JoeNewbolt was standing beside the body ofIsom Chase, near the head, you say?”

“Yes, near Isom’s head.”

“With his hat in his hand, as if he hadjust entered the room, or was about toleave it?”

Sol nodded.“Do you know anything about a man

who had been boarding here the past weekor two?”

The coroner seemed to ask this as anafterthought.

“Morgan,” said Sol, crossing his legsthe other way for relief. “Yes, I knowedhim.”

“Did you see him here last night?”“No, he wasn’t here. The old lady said

he stopped in at our house yesterdaymorning to sell me a ready-reckoner.”

Sol chuckled, perhaps over what heconsidered a narrow escape.

“I was over at Shelbyville, on the jury,and I wasn’t there, so he didn’t sell it.Been tryin’ to for a week. He told the oldlady that was his last day here, and he wasleavin’ then.”

“And about what time of night was itwhen you heard the shot in Isom Chase’shouse, and ran over?”

“Along about first rooster-crow,” saidSol.

“And that might be about what hour?”“Well, I’ve knowed ’em to crow at

’leven this time o’ year, and ag’in I’veknowed ’em to put it off as late as two.But I should judge that it was about twelvewhen I come over here the first time lastnight.”

Sol was excused with that. He left the

witness-chair with ponderous solemnity.The coroner’s stenographer had takendown his testimony, and was now leaningback in his chair as serenely as ifunconscious of his own marvelousaccomplishment of being able to writedown a man’s words as fast as he couldtalk.

Not so to those who beheld the feat forthe first time. They watched the youngman, who was a ripe-cheeked chap withpale hair, as if they expected to catch himin the fraud and pretense of it in the end,and lay bare the deceit which he practisedupon the world.

The coroner was making notes of hisown, stroking his black beard thoughtfully,and in the pause between witnesses theassembled neighbors had the pleasure of

inspecting the parlor of dead Isom Chasewhich they had invaded, into which,living, he never had invited them.

Isom’s first wife had arranged thatroom, in the hope of her young heart, yearsand years ago. Its walls were papered inbridal gaiety, its colors still bright, for thefull light of day seldom fell into it as now.There hung a picture of that bride’s father,a man with shaved lip and a forest ofbeard from ears to Adam’s apple, in alittle oval frame; and there, across theroom, was another, of her mother,Quakerish in look, with smooth hair and awhite something on her neck and bosom,held at her throat by a portrait brooch. Onthe table, just under that fast-writing youngman’s eyes, was a glass thing shaped likea cake cover, protecting some flowers

made of human hair, and sprigs ofbachelor’s button, faded now, and losingtheir petals.

There hung the marriage certificate ofIsom and his first wife, framed intarnished gilt which was flaking from thewood, a blue ribbon through a slit in onecorner of the document, like the pendant ofa seal, and there stood the horsehair-upholstered chairs, so spare of back andthin of shank that the rustics would standrather than trust their corn-fed weight uponthem. Underfoot was a store-boughtcarpet, as full of roses as the ElysianFields, and over by the door lay a round,braided rag mat, into which Isom’s oldwife had stitched the hunger of her heartand the brine of her lonely tears.

The coroner looked up from his little

red-leather note-book.“Joe Newbolt, step over here and be

sworn,” said he.Joe crossed over to the witness-chair,

picking his way through feet and legs. Ashe turned, facing the coroner, his handupraised, Ollie looked at him steadily, herfingers fluttering and twining.

Twelve hours had made a woefulchange in her. She was as gaunt as asuckling she-hound, an old terror laylurking in her young eyes. For one hour ofdread is worse than a year of weeping.One may grieve, honestly and deeply,without wearing away the cheeks orburning out the heart, for there is a softsorrow which lies upon the soul like adeadening mist upon the autumn fields. Butthere is no worry without waste. One day

of it will burn more of the fuel of humanlife than a decade of placid sorrow.

How much would he tell? Would it beall–the story of the caress in the kitchendoor, the orchard’s secret, the attempt torun away from Isom–or would he shieldher in some manner? If he should tell all,there sat an audience ready to snatch thetale and carry it away, and spread itabroad. Then disgrace would follow,pitiless and driving, and Morgan was notthere to bear her away from it, or tomitigate its sting.

Bill Frost edged over and stood behindthe witness chair. His act gave theaudience a thrill. “He’s under arrest!” theywhispered, sending it from ear to ear.Most of them had known it before, butthere was something so full and satisfying

in the words. Not once before in years hadthere been occasion to use them; it mightbe years again before another opportunitypresented. They had an official sound, asound of adventure and desperation. Andso they whispered them, neighbor noddingto neighbor in deep understanding as itwent round the room, like a pass-word insecret conclave: “He’s under arrest!”

There was nobody present to adviseJoe of his rights. He had been accused ofthe crime and taken into custody, yet theywere calling on him now to give evidencewhich might be used against him. If he hadany doubt about the legality of theproceeding, he was too certain of theoutcome of the inquiry to hesitate ordemur. There was not a shadow of doubtin his mind that his neighbors, men who

had known him all his life, and his fatherbefore him, would acquit him of all blamein the matter and set him free. They wouldbelieve him, assuredly. Therefore, heanswered cheerfully when the coroner putthe usual questions concerning age andnativity. Then the coroner leaned back inhis chair.

“Now, Joe, tell the jury just how ithappened,” said he.

The jury looked up with a little start ofguilt at the coroner’s reference to itself,presenting a great deal of whiskers andshocks of untrimmed hair, together withsome reddening of the face. For the juryhad been following the movements of thecoroner’s stenographer, as if it, also,expected to catch him in the trick of it thatwould incriminate him and send him to the

penitentiary for life.“I’d been down to the barn and out by

the gate, looking around,” said Joe. Therehe paused.

“Yes; looking around,” encouraged thecoroner, believing from the lad’sappearance and slow manner that he had adull fellow in hand. “Now, what were youlooking around for, Joe?”

“I had a kind of uneasy feeling, and Iwanted to see if everything was safe,”said Joe.

“Afraid of horse-thieves, or somethinglike that?”

“Something like that,” nodded Joe.Mrs. Newbolt, sitting very straight-

backed, held her lips tight, for she wasimpressed with the seriousness of the

occasion. Now and then she nodded, as ifconfirming to herself some foregoneconclusion.

“Isom had left me in charge of theplace, and I didn’t want him to come backand find anything gone,” Joe explained.

“I see,” said the coroner in a friendlyway. “Then what did you do?”

“I went back to the house and lit thelamp in the kitchen,” said Joe.

“How long was that before Isom camein?”

“Only a little while; ten or fifteenminutes, or maybe less.”

“And what did Isom say when he camein, Joe?”

“He said he’d kill me, he was in atemper,” Joe replied.

“You had no quarrel before he said that,Isom just burst right into the room andthreatened to kill you, did he, Joe? Now,you’re sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly sure.”“What had you done to send Isom off

into a temper that way?”“I hadn’t done a thing,” said Joe,

meeting the coroner’s gaze honestly.The coroner asked him concerning his

position in the room, what he was doing,and whether he had anything in his handsthat excited Isom when he saw it.

“My hands were as empty as they arethis minute,” said Joe, but not without alittle color in his cheeks when heremembered how hot and small Ollie’shand had felt within his own.

“When did you first see this?” asked thecoroner, holding up the sack with the burstcorner which had lain on Isom’s breast.

The ruptured corner had been tied witha string, and the sack bulged heavily in thecoroner’s hand.

“When Isom was lying on the floor afterhe was shot,” said Joe.

A movement of feet was audiblethrough the room. People looked at eachother, incredulity in their eyes. Thecoroner returned to the incidents whichled up to the shooting snapping back tothat phase of the inquiry suddenly, as if inthe expectation of catching Joe off hisguard.

“What did he threaten to kill you for?”he asked sharply.

“Well, Isom was an unreasonable andquick-tempered man,” Joe replied.

The coroner rose to his feet in a quickstart, as if he intended to leap over thetable. He pointed his finger at Joe, shakinghis somber beard.

“What did Isom Chase catch you atwhen he came into that kitchen?” he askedaccusingly.

“He saw me standing there, just aboutto blow out the light and go to bed,” saidJoe.

“What did you and Isom quarrel aboutlast night?”

Joe did not reply at once. He seemeddebating with himself over theadvisability of answering at all. Then heraised his slow eyes to the coroner’s face.

“That was between him and me,” saidhe.

“Very well,” said the coroner shortly,resuming his seat. “You may tell the juryhow Isom Chase was shot.”

Joe described Isom’s leap for the gun,the struggle he had with him to restrainhim, the catching of the lock in the fork asIsom tugged at the barrel, the shot, andIsom’s death.

When he finished, the coroner bent overhis note-book again, as if little interestedand less impressed. Silence fell over theroom. Then the coroner spoke, his headstill bent over the book, not even turninghis face toward the witness, his voice softand low.

“You were alone with Isom in thekitchen when this happened?”

A flash of heat ran over Ollie’s body.After it came a sweeping wave of cold.The room whirled; the world stood onedge. Her hour had struck; the last momentof her troubled security was speedingaway. What would Joe answer to that?

“Yes,” said Joe calmly, “we werealone.”

Ollie breathed again; her heart’sconstriction relaxed.

The coroner wheeled on Joe.“Where was Mrs. Chase?” he asked.A little murmur, as of people drawing

together with whispers; a little softscuffing of cautiously shifted feet on thecarpet, followed the question. Ollieshrank back, as if wincing from pain.

“Mrs. Chase was upstairs in her room,”

answered Joe.The weight of a thousand centuries

lifted from Ollie’s body. Her visioncleared. Her breath came back inmeasured flow to her lips, moist andrefreshing.

He had not told. He was standingbetween her and the sharp tongues of thosewaiting people, already licking hungrily intheir awakened suspicion, ready to searher fair name like flames. But there wasno gratitude in her heart that moment, noquick lifting of thankfulness norunderstanding of the great peril which Joehad assumed for her. There was onlyrelief, blessed, easing, cool relief. He hadnot told.

But the coroner was a persistent man.He was making more than an investigation

out of it; he was fairly turning it into atrial, with Joe as the defendant. Thepeople were ready to see that, andappreciate his attempts to uncover thedark motive that lay behind this deed, ofwhich they were convinced, almost to aman, that Joe was guilty.

“Was Isom jealous of you?” asked thecoroner, beginning the assault on Joe’sreserve suddenly again when it seemedthat he was through. For the first timeduring the inquiry Joe’s voice wasunsteady when he replied.

“He had no cause to be, and you’ve gotno right to ask me that, either, sir!” hesaid.

“Shame on you, shame on you!” saidMrs. Newbolt, leaning toward thecoroner, shaking her head reprovingly.

“I’ve got the right to ask you anythingthat I see fit and proper, young man,” thecoroner rebuked him sternly.

“Well, maybe you have,” granted Joe,drawing himself straight in the chair.

“Did Isom Chase ever find you alonewith his wife?” the coroner asked.

“Now you look here, sir, if you’ll askme questions that a gentleman ought to ask,I’ll answer you like a gentleman, but I’llnever answer such questions as that!”

There was a certain polite deference inJoe’s voice, which he felt that he owed,perhaps, to the office that the manrepresented, but there was a firmnessabove it all that was unmistakable.

“You refuse to answer any morequestions, then?” said the coroner slowly,

and with a significance that was almostsinister.

“I’ll answer any proper questions youcare to ask me,” answered Joe.

“Very well, then. You say that you andIsom quarreled last night?”

“Yes, sir; we had a little spat.”“A little spat,” repeated the coroner,

looking around the room as if to ask thepeople on whose votes he depended forreelection what they thought of a “littlespat” which ended in a man’s death. Therewas a sort of broad humor about it whichappealed to the blunt rural sense. A grinran over their faces like a spreadingwavelet on a pool. “Well now, what wasthe beginning of that ‘little spat’?”

“Oh, what’s that got to do with it?”

asked Joe impatiently. “You asked me thatbefore.”

“And I’m asking you again. What wasthat quarrel over?”

“None of your business!” said Joehotly, caring nothing for consequences.

“Then you refuse to answer, and persistin your refusal?”

“Well, we don’t seem to get on verywell,” said Joe.

“No, we don’t,” the coroner agreedsnappishly. “Stand down; that will be all.”

The listening people shifted andrelaxed, leaned and whispered, turningquick eyes upon Joe, studying him withfurtive wonder, as if they had discoveredin him some fearful and hideous thing,which he, moving among them all his life,

had kept concealed until that day.Ollie followed him in the witness-

chair. She related her story, framed on thecue that she had taken from Greening’stestimony and Joe’s substantiation of it, inlow, trembling voice, and with eyesdowncast. She knew nothing about thetragedy until Sol called up to her, shesaid, and then she was in ignorance ofwhat had happened. Mrs. Greening hadtold her when she came that Isom waskilled.

Ollie was asked about the book-agentboarder, as Greening had been asked.Morgan had left on the morning of thefateful day, she said, having finished hiswork in that part of the country. She andJoe were alone in the house that night.

The coroner spared her, no matter how

far his sharp suspicions flashed into theobscurity of the relations between herselfand the young bondman. The people,especially the women, approved hisleniency with nods. Her testimonyconcluded the inquiry, and the coroneraddressed the jury.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you will takeinto consideration the evidence you haveheard, and determine, if possible, themanner in which Isom Chase came to hisdeath, and fix the responsibility for thesame. It is within your power torecommend that any person believed byyou to be directly or indirectlyresponsible for his death, be held to theg r a n d jury for further investigation.Gentlemen, you will now view the body.”

Alive, Isom Chase had walked in the

secret derision and contempt of hisneighbors, despised for his parsimony,ridiculed for his manner of life. Dead, hehad become an object of awe which theyapproached softly and with fear.

Isom lay upon his own cellar door,taken down from its hinges to make him acouch. It stood over against the kitchenwall, a chair supporting it at either end,and Isom stretched upon it covered overwith a sheet. The coroner drew back thecovering, revealing the face of the dead,and the jurymen, hats in hand, looked overeach other’s shoulders and then backedaway.

For Isom was no handsomer as a corpsethan he had been as a living, striving man.The hard, worn iron of his frame wasthere, like an old plowshare, useless now,

no matter what furrows it had turned in itsday. The harsh speech was gone out of hiscrabbed lips, but the scowl whichdelinquent debtors feared stood frozenupon his brow. He had died with goldabove his heart, as he had lived with thethought of that bright metal crowdingevery human sentiment out of it, and themystery of those glittering pieces underhis dead hand was unexplained.

Somebody, it appeared, had sinnedagainst old Isom Chase at the end, and JoeNewbolt knew who that person was. Herehe had stood before them all and lifted upa wall of stubborn silence to shield theguilty head, and there was no doubt that itwas his own.

That also was the opinion of thecoroner’s jury, which walked out from its

deliberations in the kitchen in a littlewhile and gave as its verdict that IsomChase had come to his death by a gunshotwound, inflicted at the hands of JosephNewbolt. The jury recommended that theaccused be held to the grand jury, forindictment or dismissal.

Mrs. Newbolt did not understand fullywhat was going forward, but she gatheredthat the verdict of the neighbors wasunfriendly to Joe. She sat looking from thecoroner to Joe, from Joe to the jurors,lined up with backs against the wall, assolemn and nervous as if waiting for afiring squad to appear and take aim attheir patriotic breasts. She stood up in herbewilderment, and looked with puzzled,dazed expression around the room.

“Joe didn’t do it, if that’s what you

mean,” said she.“Madam–” began the coroner severely.“Yes, you little whiffet,” she burst out

sharply, “you’re the one that put ’em up todo it! Joe didn’t do it, I tell you, and youmen know that as well as I do. Every oneof you has knowed him all his life!”

“Madam, I must ask you not to interruptthe proceedings,” said the coroner.

“Order in the court!” commanded theconstable in his deepest official voice.

“Oh, shut your fool mouth, Bill Frost!”said Mrs. Newbolt scornfully.

“Never mind, Mother,” counseled Joe.“I’ll be all right. They have to do whatthey’re doing, I suppose.”

“Yes, they’re doin’ what that little snip-snapper with them colored whiskers tells

’em to do!” said she.Solemn as the occasion was, a grin

went round at the bald reference to aplainer fact. Even the dullest there hadseen the grayish-red at the roots of thecoroner’s beard. The coroner grew veryred of face, and gave some orders to hisstenographer, who wrote them down. Hethanked the jurors and dismissed them.Bill Frost began to prepare for the journeyto Shelbyville to turn Joe over to thesheriff.

The first, and most important, thing inthe list of preliminaries for the journey,was the proper adjustment of Bill’smustache. Bill roached it up with a turn ofthe forefinger, using the back of it, whichwas rough, like a corn-cob. When he hadgot the ends elevated at a valiant angle,

his hat firmly settled upon his head, andhis suspenders tightened two inches, hetouched Joe’s shoulder.

“Come on!” he ordered as gruffly andformally as he could draw his edgedvoice.

Joe stood, and Bill put his hand on hisarm to pilot him, in all officiousness, outof the room. Mrs. Newbolt stepped infront of them as they approached.

“Joe!” she cried appealingly.“That’s all right, Mother,” he comforted

her, “everything will be cleared up andsettled in a day or two. You go on homenow, Mother, and look after things till Icome.”

“Step out of the way, step out of theway!” said Bill with spreading

impatience.Mrs. Newbolt looked at the blustering

official pityingly.“Bill Frost, you ain’t got as much sense

as you was born with!” said she. Shepatted Joe’s shoulder, which was as nearan approach to tenderness as he everremembered her to make.

Constable Frost fell into consultationwith his adjutant, Sol Greening, as soon ashe cleared the room with the prisoner.They discussed gravely in the prisoner’shearing, for Bill kept his hand on Joe’sarm all the time, the advisability of tyinghim securely with a rope before startingon the journey to jail.

Joe grew indignant over this baseproposal. He declared that if Bill wasafraid of him he would go alone to the

county-seat and give himself up to thesheriff if they would set him free. Bill wasa little assured by his prisoner’s evidentsincerity.

Another consultation brought them tothe agreement that the best they could do,in the absence of handcuffs, was to hitchup to Isom’s buggy and make the prisonerdrive. With hands employed on the lines,he could be watched narrowly by Billwho was to take Sol’s old navy six alongin his mighty hand.

Mrs. Newbolt viewed the officiousconstable’s preparations for the journeywith many expressions of anger anddisdain.

“Just look at that old fool, Bill Frost,with that revolver!” said she, turning tothe neighbors, who stood silently

watching. “Just as if Joe would hurtanybody, or try to run away!”

Sympathy seemed to be lacking in thecrowd. Everybody was against Joe, thatwas attested by the glum faces and silencewhich met her on every hand. She wasamazed at their stupidity. There theystood, people who had seen Joe grow up,people who knew that a Newbolt wouldgive his last cent and go hungry to meet anobligation; that he would wear rags to payhis debts, as Peter had done, as Joe wasdoing after him; that he would work andstrive night and day to keep fair hishonorable name, and to preserve thehonest record of the family clear andclean.

They all knew that, and they knew that aNewbolt never lied, but they hunched their

backs and turned away their heads as ifthey thought a body was going to hit themwhen she spoke. It disgusted her; she feltlike she could turn loose on some of themwith their own records, which she hadfrom a generation back.

She approached the buggy as Joe tookup the lines and prepared to drive out ofthe gate.

“I don’t see why they think you done it,son, it’s so unreasonable and unneighborlyof them,” said she.

“Neighborly!” said Joe, with suddenbitterness in his young voice. “What am Ito them but ‘the pore folks’ boy’? Theydidn’t believe me, Mother, but when I geta chance to stand up before JudgeMaxwell over at Shelbyville, I’ll betalking to a gentleman. A gentleman will

understand.”That sounded like his father, she

thought. It moved her with a feeling of thepride which she had reflected feebly forso many years.

“I hope so, son,” said she. “If you’renot back in a day or two, I’ll be over toShelbyville.”

“Drive on, drive on!” ordered Bill, theold black revolver in his hand.

The crowd was impressed by thatweapon, knowing its history, aseverybody did. Greening’s more or lesshonorable father had carried it with himwhen he rode in the train of Quantrell, theinfamous bushwhacker. It was the oldman’s boast to his dying day that he hadexterminated a family of father and fivesons in the raid upon Lawrence with that

old weapon, without recharging it.Joe drove through the open gate without

a look behind him. His face was pale, hisheart was sick with the humiliation of thatday. But he felt that it was only atemporary cloud into which he hadstepped, and that clearing would comeagain in a little while. It wasinconceivable to him how anybody couldbe so foolish as to believe, or evensuspect, that he had murdered Isom Chase.

The assembled people having heard allthere was to hear, and seen all there wasto see at the gate, began to straggle back tothe farmhouse to gossip, to gape, andexclaim. To Greening and his family hadfallen the office of comforting the widowand arranging for the burial, and now Solhad many offers to sit up with the corpse

that night.Mrs. Newbolt stood at the roadside,

looking after the conveyance which wastaking her son away to jail, until a bendbehind a tall hedge hid it from her eyes.She made no further attempt to findsympathy or support among her neighbors,who looked at her curiously as she stoodthere, and turned away selfishly when shefaced them.

Back over the road that she had hurriedalong that morning she trudged, slowlyand without spirit, her feet like stones. Asshe went, she tried to arrange the day’shappenings in her mind. All was confusionthere. The one plain thing, the thing thatpersisted and obtruded, was that they hadarrested Joe on a charge that was at oncehideous and unjust.

Evening was falling when she reachedthe turn of the road and looked ahead toher home. She had no heart for supper, noheart to lift the latch of the kitchen doorand enter there. There was no desire inher heart but for her son, and no comfort inthe prospect of her oncoming night.

CHAPTER IXTHE SEALED ENVELOPE

In the light of Joe’s reluctant testimonyand his strange, stubborn, and stiff-neckedrefusal to go into the matter of the quarrelbetween himself and Isom; theunexplained mystery of the money whichhad been found in the burst bag on Isom’sbreast; and Joe’s declaration that he hadnot seen it until Isom fell: in the light of allthis, the people of that communitybelieved the verdict of the coroner’s juryto be just.

This refusal of Joe’s to talk out andexplain everything was a display of thethreadbare Newbolt dignity, people said,

an exhibition of which they had not seensince old Peter’s death. But it lookedmore like bull-headedness to them.

“Don’t the darned fool know he’spokin’ his head under the gallus?” theyasked.

What was the trouble between him andIsom about? What was he doin’ there inthe kitchen with the lamp lit that hour ofthe night? Where did that there moneycome from, gentlemen? That’s what I wantyou to tell me!

Those were the questions which werebeing asked, man to man, group to group,and which nobody could answer, as theystood discussing it after Joe had beentaken away to jail. The coroner mingledwith them, giving them the weight of hisexperience.

“That Newbolt’s deeper than he lookson the outside, gentlemen,” he said,shaking his serious whiskers. “There’s alot more behind this case than we can see.Old Isom Chase was murdered, and thatmurder was planned away ahead. It’s beena long time since I’ve seen anybody on thewitness-stand as shrewd and sharp as thatNewbolt boy. He knew just what to so sayand just what to shut his jaws on. Butwe’ll fetch it out of him–or somebodyelse.”

As men went home to take up theirneglected tasks, they talked it all over.They wondered what Joe would havedone with that money if he had succeededin getting away with it; whether he wouldhave made it out of the country, or whetherthe invincible Bill Frost, keen on his scent

as a fox-hound, would have pursued himand brought him back.

They wondered how high they built thegallows to hang a man, and discussed theprobability of the event being public. Theyspeculated on the manner in which Joewould go to his death, whether boldly,with his head up that way, or cringing andafraid, his proud heart and spirit broken,and whether he would confess at the endor carry his secret with him to the grave.Then they branched off into discussions ofthe pain of hanging, and wonderedwhether it was a “more horribler” deaththan drowning or burning in a haystack, orfrom eating pounded glass.

It was a great, moving, awakeningsensation in the countryside, that taking offof Isom Chase by a mysterious midnight

shot. It pulled people up out of the drowseof a generation, and set them talking asthey had not talked in twenty years. Theirsluggish brains were heated by it, theirsleeping hearts quickened.

People were of the undivided opinionthat Isom had caught Joe robbing him, andthat Joe had shot him in the fear ofpunishment for the theft. Perhaps it isbecause chivalry is such a rare qualityamong the business activities of this life,that none of them believed he wasshielding Isom’s wife, and that he wasinnocent of any wrong himself. They didnot approve the attempt of the coroner todrag her into it. The shrewd insight of thelittle man cost him a good many votes thatday.

Joe Newbolt could very well be a

robber, they said, for all his life hadprepared him for a fall before thetemptation of money. He could very wellbe a robber, indeed, and there was noroom for him to turn out anything nobler,for wasn’t he the pore folks’ boy?

Ollie was almost as short in herrealization of what Joe had done for her asthose who knew nothing at all of hismotive of silence. In the relief of herescape from public disclosure of herintrigue with Morgan, she enjoyed aluxurious relaxation. It was like sleepafter long watching.

She did not understand the peril inwhich Joe stood on her account, norconsider that the future still held for bothof them a trial which would test Joe’sstrength as the corrosive tooth of acid

challenges the purity of gold. It wasenough for her that sunny afternoon, andsufficient to her shallow soul, to know thatshe was safe. She lay warm and restful inher bed while the neighbor women set thehouse to rights, and the men moved Isom’sbody into the parlor to wait for the coffinwhich Sol Greening had gone after to thecounty-seat.

Ollie watched the little warm whiteclouds against the blue of the October sky,and thought of the fleecy soft things whicha mother loves to swaddle her baby in;she watched the shadow of falling leavesupon the floor, blowing past her windowon the slant sunbeams.

She was safe!Joe was accused, but she seemed to

hold that a trivial incident in an exciting

day. It would pass; he would clearhimself, as he deserved to be cleared, andthen, when Morgan came back for her andcarried her away into his world,everything would be in tune.

Perhaps it was because she knew thatJoe was innocent that his accusationappeared so untenable and trivial to her.At any rate, the lawyers over atShelbyville–wasn’t their cunning knownaround the world–could get him off. If itcame to that, she would see that he had agood one, as good as money couldemploy. Joe had stood by her; she wouldstand by Joe. That was the extent of herconcern that afternoon.

It was pleasant to stretch there in peace,with no task before her, no rude summonsto arise and work. Isom would call her no

more at dawn; his voice would be silent inthat house forever more. There was noregret in the thought, no pang, no pain.

As one lives his life, so he must bepitied in death. Soft deeds father softmemories. There never was but one manwho rose with the recollection of pleasantdreams from pillowing his head upon astone, and that man was under the hand ofGod. Isom Chase had planted bitterness;his memory was gall.

She was safe, and she was free. Shehad come into her expectations; the pre-nuptial dreams of enjoying Isom Chase’swealth were suddenly at hand.

Together with the old rifle and Isom’sblood-stained garments, the coroner hadtaken away the little bag of gold, to beused as evidence, he said. He had taken

the money, just as it was in the little sack,a smear of blood on it, after counting itbefore witnesses and giving her a receiptfor the amount. Two thousand dollars; onehundred pieces of twenty dollars each.That was the tale of the contents of thecanvas bag which had lain grinning onIsom’s pulseless heart. It was not a greatamount of money, considering Isom’sfaculty for gaining and holding it. It wasthe general belief that he had ten, twenty,times that amount, besides his loans,hidden away, and the secret of his hiding-place had gone out of the world withIsom.

Others said that he had put his moneyinto lands, pointing to the many farmswhich he owned and rented in the county.But be that as it might, there was Ollie,

young and handsome, well paid for herhard year as Isom’s wife, free now, anddoubtless already willing at heart to makesome young man happy. Nobody blamedher for that.

It was well known that Isom had abusedher, that her life had been cheerless andlonely under his roof. Those who did notknow it from first-hand facts believed iton the general notoriety of the man.Contact with Isom Chase had been likesleeping on a corn-husk bed; there was nocomfort in it, no matter which way oneturned.

Ollie, her eyes closed languidly, nowlanguidly opened to follow the track of thelamb-fleece clouds, her young bodyfeeling warm and pleasant, as if latelyreleased from a sorely cramped state;

Ollie, with little fleeting dreams in herpretty, shallow head, was believed by thewomen of the neighborhood to be in theway of realizing on Isom’s expectations ofan heir. It was a little fiction that had takenits beginning from Sol Greening’s earlytalk, and owing to that rumor the coronerhad been gentle with her beyond theinclination of his heart.

The young widow smiled as she lay onher pillow and thought of the little intimatetouches of tenderness which this baselessrumor had made her the beneficiary of ather neighbor’s hands. She was selfishenough to take advantage of their mistakenkindnesses and to surrender to theirvigorous elbows the work below stairs.That was her day of freedom; it was herdawn of peace.

It was pleasant to have come throughstress and hardship to this restful eddy inthe storm of life; to have faced peril anddisgrace and come away still clean in theeyes of men. Ollie was content with thingsas they were, as the evening shadowsclosed the door upon the events of thattrying day.

Quite different was the case of SarahNewbolt, once more back in her poorshelter, nested in bramble and clamberingvine. She was dazed, the song was goneout of her heart. She was bereaved, andher lips were moving in endless repetitionof supplication to the Almighty for thesafety and restoration of her son.

What was this grim thing of which theyhad accused her Joe? She could not yet getto the bottom of it, she could not

understand how men could be so warpedand blind. Why, Joe had told them how ithappened, he had explained it as clear aswell water, but they didn’t believe him.She went out and sat on the porch to thinkit out, if possible, and come to some wayof helping Joe. There was not a friend toturn to, not a counselor to lean upon.

She never had felt it lonely in the oldplace before, for there wascompanionship even in the memory of herdead, but this evening as she sat on theporch, the familiar objects in the yardgrowing dim through the oncoming night,the hollowness of desolation was there.Joe was in prison. The neighbors hadrefused to believe the word of her boy.There was nobody to help him but her.The hand of everybody else was against

him. She had delivered him into bondageand brought this trouble to him, and nowshe must stir herself to set him free.

“It’s all my own doin’s,” said she inunsparing reproach. “My chickens hascome to roost.”

After nightfall she went into the kitchenwhere she sat a dreary while before herstove, leaning forward in her unlovely,ruminating pose. Through the open draft ofthe stove the red coals within it glowed,casting three little bars of light upon thefloor. Now and then a stick burned in twoand settled down, showering sparksthrough the grate. These little flashes lit upher brown and somber face, anddiscovered the slow tears upon herweathered cheeks. For a long time she satthus, then at last she lifted her head and

looked around the room. Her table stoodas she had left it in the morning, no foodhad passed her lips since then. But thefrantic turmoil of the first hours after Joehad been led away to jail had quieted.

A plan of action had shaped itself in hermind. In the morning she would go toShelbyville and seek her husband’s oldfriend, Colonel Henry Price, to solicit hisadvice and assistance. In a mannercomforted by this resolution, she preparedherself a pot of coffee and some food.After the loneliest and most hopeless mealthat she ever had eaten in her life, shewent to bed.

In the house of Isom Chase, whereneighbors sat to watch the night out besidethe shrouded body, there was a waste ofoil in many lamps, such an illumination

that it seemed a wonder that old Isom didnot rise up from his gory bed to turn downthe wicks and speak reproof. Everybodymust have a light. If an errand for theliving or a service for the dead called onefrom this room to that, there must be alight. That was a place of tragic mystery, aplace of violence and death. If light hadbeen lacking there on the deeds of IsomChase, on his hoardings and hidings away;on the hour of his death and the mystery ofit, then all this must be balanced tonight bygleams in every window, beams throughevery crevice; lamps here, lanterns there,candles in cupboards, cellar, and nook.

Let there be light in the house of IsomChase, and in the sharp espionage ofcurious eyes, for dark days hang over it,and the young widow who draws the pity

of all because she cannot weep.No matter how hard a woman’s life

with a man has been, when he dies she isexpected to mourn. That was the standardof fealty and respect in the neighborhoodof Isom Chase, as it is in more enlightenedcommunities in other parts of the world. Awoman should weep for her man, nomatter what bruises on body his heavyhand may leave behind him, or what scarsin the heart which no storm of tears canwash away. Custom has made hypocritesof the ladies in this matter the wide worldthrough. Let no man, therefore, lyingbloodless and repellent upon his cooling-board, gather comfort to his cold heartwhen his widow’s tears fall upon his face.For she may be weeping more for whatmight have been than was.

Isom Chase’s widow could not weep atall. That was what they said of her, andtheir pity was more tender, theircompassion more sweet. Dry grief, theysaid. And that is grief like a covered fire,which smolders in the heart and chars thefoundations of life. She ought to be crying,to clear her mind and purge herself of thedregs of sorrow, which would settle andcorrode unless flushed out by tears; sheought to get rid of it at once, like any otherwidow, and settle down to the enjoymentof all the property.

The women around Ollie in her roomtried to provoke her tears by reference toIsom’s good qualities, his widely knownhonesty, his ceaseless striving to lay upproperty which he knew he couldn’t takewith him, which he realized that his young

wife would live long years after him toenjoy. They glozed his faults and madevirtues out of his close-grained traits; theypraised and lamented, with sighs andmournful words, but Isom’s widow couldnot weep.

Ollie wished they would go away andlet her sleep. She longed for them to putout the lamps and let the moonlight comein through the window and whiten on thefloor, and bring her soft thoughts ofMorgan. She chafed under their chatter,and despised them for their shallowpretense. There was not one of them whohad respected Isom in life, but now theysat there, a solemn conclave, great-breasted sucklers of the sons of men, andinsisted that she, his unloved, his driven,abused and belabored wife, weep tears

for his going, for which, in her heart, shewas glad.

It was well that they could not see herface, turned into the shadow, nestledagainst the pillow, moved now and then asby the zephyr breath of a smile. At timesshe wanted to laugh at their pretense andhumbug. To prevent it breaking out inunseemly sound she was obliged to bitethe coverlet and let the spasms of mirthwaste themselves in her body and limbs.

When the good women beheld thesecontractions they looked at each othermeaningly and shook dolefully wiseheads. Dry grief. Already it was layingdeep hold on her, racking her like ague.She would waste under the curse of it, andfollow Isom to the grave in a little while,if she could not soon be moved to weep.

Ollie did not want to appearunneighborly nor unkind, but as the nightwore heavily on she at last requested themto leave her.

“You are all so good and kind!” saidshe, sincere for the moment, for there wasno mistaking that they meant to be. “But Ithink if you’d take the lamp out of theroom I could go to sleep. If I need you, I’llcall.”

“Now, that’s just what you do, deary,”said red-faced Mrs. Greening, patting herhead comfortingly.

The women retired to the sparebedroom where Joe had slept the nightbefore, and from there their low voicescame to Ollie through the open door. Shegot up and closed it gently, and ran up thewindow-blind and opened the window-

sash, letting in the wind, standing there alittle while drawing her gown aside, forthe touch of it on her hot breast. Sheremembered the day that Joe had seen herso, the churn-dasher in her hand; therecollection of what was pictured in hisface provoked a smile.

There was a mist before the moon like ablowing veil, presaging rain tomorrow,the day of the funeral. It was well knownin that part of the country that rain on acoffin a certain sign that another of thatfamily would die within a year. Olliehoped that it would not rain. She was notready to die within a year, nor many years.Her desire to live was large and deep.She had won the right, Isom hadcompensated in part for the evil he haddone her in leaving behind him all that

was necessary to make the journeypleasant.

As she turned into her bed again andcomposed herself for sleep, she thought ofJoe, with a feeling of tenderness. Sherecalled again what Isom had proudly toldher of the lad’s blood and breeding, andshe understood dimly now that there wassomething extraordinary in Joe’s mannerof shielding her to his own disgrace andhurt. A common man would not have donethat, she knew.

She wondered if Morgan would havedone it, if he had been called upon, but theyea or the nay of it did not trouble her.Morgan was secure in her heart withoutsacrifice.

Well, tomorrow they would bury Isom,and that would end it. Joe would be set

free then, she thought, the future would beclear. So reasoning, she went to sleep inpeace.

Ollie’s habit of early rising during thepast year of her busy life made itimpossible for her to sleep after daylight.For a while after waking next morning shelay enjoying that new phase of herenfranchisement. From that day forwardthere would be no need of rising with thedawn. Time was her own now; she couldstretch like a lady who has servants tobring and take away, until the sun cameinto her chamber, if she choose.

Downstairs there were dim sounds ofpeople moving about, and the odors ofbreakfast were rising. Thinking that itwould be well, for the sake ofappearances, to go down and assist them,

she got up and dressed.She stopped before the glass to try her

hair in a new arrangement, it was suchbright hair, she thought, for mourning, butyet as somber as her heart, bringing it alittle lower on the brow, in a sweep fromthe point of parting. The effect wassomewhat frivolous for a season ofmourning, and she would have to passthrough one, she sighed. After a while,when she went out into Morgan’s world oflaughter and chatter and fine things. Shesmiled, patting her lively tresses back intotheir accustomed place.

Ollie was vain of her prettiness, as anywoman is, only in her case there was nosoul beneath it to give it ballast. Herbeauty was pretty much surfacecomeliness, and it was all there was of

her, like a great singer who sometimes isnothing but a voice.

Sol Greening was in the kitchen withhis wife and his son’s wife and two of themore distant neighbor women who hadremained overnight. The other men whohad watched with Sol around Isom’s bierhad gone off to dig a grave for the dead,after the neighborly custom there. Asquick as her thought, Ollie’s eyes soughtthe spot where Isom’s blood had stood inthe worn plank beside the table. The stainwas gone. She drew her breath withfreedom, seeing it so, yet wondering howthey had done it, for she had heard all herlife that the stain of human blood upon afloor could not be scoured away.

“We was just gettin’ a bite of breakfasttogether,” said Mrs. Greening, her red

face shining, and brighter for its big,friendly smile.

“I was afraid you might not be able tofind everything,” explained Ollie, “and soI came down.”

“No need for you to do that, bless yourheart!” Mrs. Greening said. “But we wasjust talkin’ of callin’ you. Sol, he runacross something last night that we thoughtyou might want to see as soon as youcould.”

Ollie looked from one to the other ofthem with a question in her eyes.

“Something–something of mine?” sheasked.

Mrs. Greening nodded.“Something Isom left. Fetch it to her,

Sol.”

Sol disappeared into the dread parlorwhere Isom lay, and came back with alarge envelope tied about with a bluestring, and sealed at the back with waxover the knotted cord.

“It’s Isom’s will,” said Sol, giving it toOllie. “When we was makin’ room tofetch in the coffin and lay Isom out in itlast night, we had to move the center table,and the drawer fell out of it. This paperwas in there along with a bundle of old taxreceipts. As soon as we seen what was onit, we decided it orto be put in your handsas soon as you woke up.”

“I didn’t know he had a will,” saidOllie, turning the envelope in her hands,not knowing what to make of it, or what todo with it, at all.

“Read what’s on the in-vellup,”

advised Sol, standing by importantly, hishands on his hips, his big legs spread out.

Outside the sun was shining, tenderlyyellow like a new plant. Ollie marked itwith a lifting of relief. There would be norain on the coffin. It was light enough toread the writing on the envelope whereshe stood, but she moved over to thewindow, wondering on the way.

What was a will for but to leaveproperty, and what need had Isom formaking one?

It was an old envelope, its edgesbrowned by time, and the ink upon it wasgray.

My last Will and Testament.Isom Chase.

N. B.–To be opened by John B.

Little, in case he is living at thetime of my death. If he is not,then this is to be filed by thefinder, unopened, in the probatecourt.

That was the superscription in Isom’swriting, correctly spelled, correctlypunctuated, after his precise way in allbusiness affairs.

“Who is John B. Little?” asked Ollie,her heart seeming to grow small, shrinkingfrom some undefined dread.

“He’s Judge Little, of the county courtnow,” said Sol. “I’ll go over after him, ifyou say so.”

“After breakfast will do,” said Ollie.She put the envelope on the shelf beside

the clock, as if it did not concern her

greatly. Yet, under her placid surface shewas deeply moved. What need had Isomfor making a will?

“It saves a lot of lawin’ and wastin’money on costs,” said Sol, as if readingher mind and making answer to herthought. “You’ll have a right smart ofproperty on your hands to look after for ayoung girl like you.”

Of course, to her. Who else was therefor him to will his property to? A rightsmart, indeed. Sol’s words were wise;they quieted her sudden, sharp pain offear.

Judge Little lived less than a mileaway. Before nine o’clock he was there,his black coat down to his knees, for hewas a short man and bowed of the legs,his long ends of hair combed over his bald

crown.The judge was at that state of shrinkage

when the veins can be counted in thehands of a thin man of his kind. Hissmoothly shaved face was purple fromcongestion, the bald place on his smallhead was red. He was a man who walkedabout as if wrapped in meditation, and onhim rested a notarial air. His arms werealmost as long as his legs, his hands wereextremely large, lending the impressionthat they had belonged originally toanother and larger man, and that JudgeLittle must have become possessed ofthem by some process of delinquencyagainst a debtor. As he walked along hisway those immense hands hovered nearthe skirts of his long coat, the fingers bent,as if to lay hold of that impressive garment

and part it. This, together with the judge’smeditative appearance, lent him the aspectof always being on the point of sittingdown.

“Well, well,” said he, sliding hisspectacles down his nose to get thereading focus, advancing the sealedenvelope, drawing it away again, “soIsom left a will? Not surprising, notsurprising. Isom was a careful man, a manof business. I suppose we might as wellproceed to open the document?”

The judge was sitting with his thin legscrossed. They hung as close and limp asempty trousers. Around the room he rovedhis eyes, red, watery, plagued by dust andwind. Greening was there, and his wife.The daughter-in-law had gone home to getready for the funeral. The other two

neighbor women reposed easily on thekitchen chairs, arms tightly folded, backsagainst the wall.

“You, Mrs. Chase, being the only livingperson who is likely to have an interest inthe will as legatee, are fully aware of thecircumstances under which it was found,and so forth and so forth?”

Ollie nodded. There was something inher throat, dry and impeding. She felt thatshe could not speak.

Judge Little took the envelope by theend, holding it up to the light. He took outhis jack-knife and cut the cord.

It was a thin paper that he drew forth,and with little writing on it. Soon JudgeLittle had made himself master of itscontents, with an Um-m-m, as he started,and with an A-h-h! when he concluded,

and a sucking-in of his thin cheeks.He looked around again, a new

brightness in his eyes. But he said nothing.He merely handed the paper to Ollie.

“Read it out loud,” she requested,giving it back.

Judge Little fiddled with his glassesagain. Then he adjusted the paper beforehis eyes like a target, and read:

I hereby will and bequeath tomy beloved son, Isom WalkerChase, all of my property,personal and real; and I herebyappoint my friend, John B.Little, administrator of myestate, to serve without bond,until my son shall attain hismajority, in case that I should

die before that time. This is mylast will, and I am in soundmind and bodily health.

That was all.

CHAPTER XLET HIM HANG

The will was duly signed and witnessed,and bore a notarial seal. It was dated inthe hand of the testator, in addition to theacknowledgment of the notary, all regular,and unquestionably done.

“His son!” said Sol, amazed, lookingaround with big eyes. “Why, Isom henever had no son!”

“Do we know that?” asked Judge Little,as if to raise the question of reasonabledoubt.

Son or no son, until that point should bedetermined he would have theadministration of the estate, with large and

comfortable fees.“Well, I’ve lived right there acrost the

road from him all my life, and all of his,too; and I reckon I’d purty near know ifanybody knowed!” declared Sol. “I wentto school with Isom, I was one of the littlefellers when he was a big one, and I wasat his weddin’. My wife she laid out hisfirst wife, and I dug her grave. She neverhad no children, judge; you know that aswell as anybody.”

Judge Little coughed dryly, thoughtfully,his customary aspect of deep meditationmore impressive than ever.

“Sometimes the people we believe weknow best turn out to be the ones we knowleast,” said he. “Maybe we knew only oneside of Isom’s life. Every man has hissecrets.”

“You mean to say there was anotherwoman somewheres?” asked Sol, takingthe scent avidly.

The women against the wall joinedMrs. Greening in a virtuous, scandalizedgroan. They looked pityingly at Ollie,sitting straight and white in her chair. Shedid not appear to see them; she waslooking at Judge Little with fixed,frightened stare.

“That is not for me to say,” answeredthe judge; and his manner of saying itseemed to convey the hint that he couldthrow light on Isom’s past if he shouldunseal his lips.

Ollie took it to be that way. Sherecalled the words of the will, “Myfriend, John B. Little.” Isom had neverspoken in her hearing that way of any man.

Perhaps there was some bond between thetwo men, reaching back to the escapadesof youth, and maybe Judge Little had therusty old key to some past romance inIsom’s life.

“Laws of mercy!” said Mrs. Greening,freeing a sigh of indignation which surelymust have burst her if it had beenrepressed.

“This document is dated almost thirtyyears ago,” said the judge. “It is possiblethat Isom left a later will. We must make asearch of the premises to determine that.”

“In sixty-seven he wrote it,” said Sol,“and that was the year he was married.The certificate’s hangin’ in there on thewall. Before that, Isom he went off to St.Louis to business college a year or twoand got all of his learnin’ and smart ways.

I might ’a’ went, too, just as well as not.Always wisht I had.”

“Very true, very true,” nodded JudgeLittle, as if to say: “You’re on the trail ofhis iniquities now, Sol.”

Sol’s mouth gaped like an old-fashioned corn-planter as he looked fromthe judge to Mrs. Greening, from Mrs.Greening to Ollie. Sol believed the truelight of the situation had reached his brain.

“Walker–Isom Walker Chase! NoWalkers around in this part of the countryto name a boy after–never was.”

“His mother was a Walker, fromEllinoi, dunce!” corrected his wife.

“Oh!” said Sol, his scandalous casecollapsing about him as quickly as it hadpuffed up. “I forgot about her.”

“Don’t you worry about that will,honey,” advised Mrs. Greening, going toOllie and putting her large freckled armaround the young woman’s shoulders; “forit won’t amount to shucks! Isom never hada son, and even if he did by some womanhe wasn’t married to, how’s he goin’ toprove he’s the feller?”

Nobody attempted to answer her, andMrs. Greening accepted that as proof thather argument was indubitable.

“It–can’t–be–true!” said Ollie.“Well, it gits the best of me!” sighed

Greening, shaking his uncombed head.“Isom he was too much of a business manto go and try to play off a joke like that onanybody.”

“After the funeral I would advise athorough search among Isom’s papers in

the chance of finding another and laterwill than this,” said Judge Little. “And inthe meantime, as a legal precaution,merely as a legal precaution andformality, Mrs. Chase––”

The judge stopped, looking at Olliefrom beneath the rims of his specs, as ifwaiting for her permission to proceed.Ollie, understanding nothing at all of whatwas in his mind, but feeling that it wasrequired of her, nodded. That seemed thesignal for which he waited. Heproceeded:

“As a legal formality, Mrs. Chase, Iwill proceed to file this document forprobate this afternoon.”

Judge Little put it in his pocket,reaching down into that deep depositoryuntil his long arm was engulfed to the

elbow. That pocket must have run down tothe hem of his garment, like the oil onAaron’s beard.

Ollie got up. Mrs. Greening hastened toher to offer the support of her motherlyarm.

“I think I’ll go upstairs,” said the youngwidow.

“Yes, you do,” counseled Mrs.Greening. “They’ll be along with thewagons purty soon, and we’ll have to gitready to go. I think they must have thegrave done by now.”

The women watched Ollie as she wentuncertainly to the stairs and faltered as sheclimbed upward, shaking their headsforebodingly. Sol and Judge Little wentoutside together and stood talking by thedoor.

“Ain’t it terrible!” said one woman.“Scan’lous!” agreed the other.Mrs. Greening shook her fist toward the

parlor.“Old sneaky, slinkin’, miserly Isom!”

she denounced. “I always felt that he wasthe kind of a man to do a trick like that.Shootin’ was too good for him–he ortobeen hung!”

In her room upstairs Ollie, whileentirely unaware of Mrs. Greening’svehement arraignment of Isom, bitterlyindorsed it in her heart. She sat on hertossed bed, the sickness of disappointmentheavy over her. An hour ago wealth wasin her hand, ease was before her, and thefuture was secure. Now all was torn downand scattered by an old yellow paperwhich prying, curious, meddlesome old

Sol Greening had found. She bent her headupon her hand; tears trickled between herfingers.

Perhaps Isom had a son, unknown toanybody there. There was that period outof his life when he was at businesscollege in St. Louis. No one knew whathad taken place in that time. Perhaps hehad a son. If so, they would oust her, turnher out as poor as she came, with thememory of that hard year of servitude inher heart and nothing to compensate for it,not even a tender recollection. How muchbetter if Joe had not come between herand Curtis Morgan that night–what night,how long ago was it now?–how muchkinder and happier for her indeed?

With the thought of what Joe had causedof wreckage in her life by his meddling,

her resentment rose against him. But forhim, slow-mouthed, cold-hearted lout, shewould have been safe and happy withMorgan that hour. Old Isom would havebeen living still, going about his sordidways as before she came, and the need ofhis money would have been removed outof her life forever.

Joe was at the bottom of all this–spying,prying, meddling Joe. Let him suffer for itnow, said she. If he had kept out of thingswhich he did not understand, the fool!Now let him suffer! Let him hang, if hemust hang, as she had heard the womensay last night he should. No act of hers, noword––

“The wagons is coming, honey,” saidMrs. Greening at her door. “We must gitready to go to the graveyard now.”

CHAPTER XIPETER’S SON

Mint grew under the peach-trees inColonel Henry Price’s garden, purple-stemmed mint, with dark-green, tenderleaves. It was not the equal of the mint, sothe colonel contended with provincialloyalty, which grew back in Kentuckyalong the clear, cool mountain streams.But, picked early in the morning with thedew on it, and then placed bouquet-wisein a bowl of fresh well-water, to standthus until needed, it made a verycompetent substitute for the Kentuckyherb.

In that cool autumn weather mint was at

its best, and Colonel Price lamented, as hegathered it that morning, elbow-deep in itsdewy fragrance, that the need of it waspassing with the last blaze of Octoberdays.

Yet it was comforting to consider howwell-balanced the seasons and men’sappetites were. With the passing of theseason for mint, the desire for it left thepalate. Frosty mornings called for thecomfort of hot toddy, wintry blasts forfrothing egg-nog in the cup. Man thirstedand nature satisfied; the economy of theworld was thus balanced and all waswell. So reasoned Colonel Pricecomfortably, after his way.

Colonel Price straightened up from hismint-picking with dew on his arm and aflush of gathered blood in his cheeks

above his beard. He looked thephilosopher and humanitarian that he wasthat morning, his breast-length white beardblowing, his long and thick white hairbrushed back in a rising wave from hisbroad forehead. He was a tall and spareman, slender of hand, small of foot, withthe crinkles of past laughter about hiseyes, and in his face benevolence. Onewould have named him a poet at first look,and argued for the contention on furtheracquaintance.

But Colonel Price was not a poet,except at heart, any more than he was asoldier, save in name. He never had trodthe bloody fields of war, but had won hisdignified and honorable title in the quietways of peace. Colonel Price was nothingless than an artist, who painted many

things because they brought him money,and one thing because he loved it andcould do it well.

He painted prize-winning heifers andhorses; portraits from the faces of men asnature had made them, with more or lessfidelity, and from faded photographs andtreasured daguerreotypes of days beforeand during the war, with whateverembellishments their owners required. Hepainted plates of apples which had takenprizes at the county fair, and royalpumpkins and kingly swine which hadwon like high distinctions. But the onething he painted because he loved it, andcould do it better than anybody else, wascorn.

At corn Colonel Price stood alone. Hepainted it in bunches hanging on barn

doors, and in disordered heaps in thehusk, a gleam of the grain showing hereand there; and he painted it shelled fromthe cob. No matter where or how hepainted it, his corn always was ripe andseasoned, like himself, and always so trueto nature, color, form, crinkle, wrinkle,and guttered heart, that farmers stoodbefore it marveling.

Colonel Price’s heifers might be–veryfrequently they were–hulky and bumpy andout of proportion, his horses strangelyforeshortened and hindlengthened; butthere never was any fault to be found withhis corn. Corn absolved him of all his sinsagainst animate and inanimate thingswhich had stood before his brush in hislong life; corn apotheosized him, cornlifted him to the throne and put the laurel

upon his old white locks.The colonel had lived in Shelbyville

for more than thirty years, in the samestately house with its three Ionic pillarsreaching from ground to gable, supportingthe two balconies facing toward the east.A square away on one hand was the court-house, a square away on the other thePresbyterian church; and around him werethe homes of men whom he had seen comethere young, and ripen with him in thatquiet place. Above him on the hill stoodthe famous old college, its maples andelms around it, and coming down from iton each side of the broad street which ledto its classic door.

Colonel Price turned his thoughts frommint to men as he came across the dewylawn, his gleanings in his hand, his bare

head gleaming in the morning sun. He hadheard, the evening before, of the arrest ofPeter Newbolt’s boy for the murder ofIsom Chase, and the news of it had cometo him with a disturbing shock, almost aspoignant as if one of his own blood hadbeen accused.

The colonel knew the sad story of Petermarrying below his estate away back therein Kentucky long ago. The Newbolts wereblue-grass people, entitled to mate withthe best in the land. Peter had debased hisblood by marrying a mountain girl.Colonel Price had held it always toPeter’s credit that he had been ashamed ofhi s mésalliance, and had plunged awayinto the woods of Missouri with his brideto hide her from the eyes of hisaristocratic family and friends.

Back in Kentucky the colonel’s familyand the Newbolt’s had been neighbors. Afew years after Peter made his dash acrossthe Mississippi with his bride, and thejourney on horseback to his new home,young Price had followed, drawn toShelbyville by the fame of that place at aseat of culture and knowledge, which evenin that early day had spread afar. Thecolonel–not having won his title then–came across the river with his easel underone arm and his pride under the other. Hehad kept both of them in honor all thoseyears.

On the hopes and ambitions of thoseearly days the colonel had realized, in asmall way, something in the measure of aman who sets to work with the intention ofmaking a million and finds himself content

at last to count his gains by hundreds. Hehad taken up politics as a spice to theplacid life of art, and once hadrepresented his district in the stateassembly, and four times had been electedcounty clerk. Then he had retired on hishonors, with a competence from his earlyinvestments and an undivided ambition topaint corn.

Through all those years he had watchedthe struggles of Peter Newbolt, who neverseemed able to kick a foothold in the stepsof success, and he had seen him die at last,with his unrealized schemes of life aroundhim. And now Peter’s boy was in jail,charged with slaying old Isom Chase.Death had its compensations, at the worst,reflected the colonel. It had spared Peterthis crowning disgrace.

That boy must be a throw-back, thoughtthe colonel, to the ambuscading, feud-fighting men on his mother’s side. TheNewbolts never had been accused ofcrime back in Kentucky. There they hadbeen the legislators, the judges, thegovernors, and senators. Yes, thought thecolonel, coming around the corner of thehouse, lifting the fragrant bunch of mint tohis face and pausing a step while he drankits breath; yes, the boy must be a throw-back. It wasn’t in the Newbolt blood to doa thing like that.

The colonel heard the front gate closesharply, drawn to by the stone weightwhich he had arranged for that purpose,having in mind the guarding of his mint-bed from the incursions of dogs. Hewondered who could be coming in so

early, and hastened forward to see. Awoman was coming up the walk towardthe house.

She was tall, and soberly clad, andwore a little shawl over her head, whichshe held at her chin with one hand. Theother hand she extended toward thecolonel with a gesture of self-depreciationand appeal as she hurried forward in longstrides.

“Colonel Price, Colonel Price, sir! CanI speak to you a minute?” she asked, hervoice halting from the shortness of breath.

“Certainly, ma’am; I am at yourcommand,” said the colonel.

“Colonel, you don’t know me,” saidshe, a little inflection of disappointment inher tone.

She stood before him, and the littleshawl over her hair fell back to hershoulders. Her clothing was poor, her feetwere covered with dust. She cast her handout again in that little movement of appeal.

“Mrs. Newbolt, Peter Newbolt’swidow, upon my soul!” exclaimed thecolonel, shocked by his own slowrecognition. “I beg your pardon, madam. Ididn’t know you at first, it has been solong since I saw you. But I was thinking ofyou only the minute past.”

“Oh, I’m in such trouble, ColonelPrice!” said she.

Colonel Price took her by the arm withtender friendliness.

“Come in and rest and refreshyourself,” said he. “You surely didn’twalk over here?”

“Yes, it’s only a step,” said she.“Five or six miles, I should say,”

ventured the colonel.“Oh, no, only four. Have you heard

about my boy Joe?”The colonel admitted that he had heard

of his arrest.“I’ve come over to ask your advice on

what to do,” said she, “and I hope it won’tbother you much, Colonel Price. Joe andme we haven’t got a friend in this world!”

“I will consider it a duty and a pleasureto assist the boy in any way I can,” saidthe colonel in perfunctory form. “But firstcome in, have some breakfast, and thenwe’ll talk it over. I’ll have to apologizefor Miss Price. I’m afraid she’s abed yet,”said he, opening the door, showing his

visitor into the parlor.“I’m awful early,” said Mrs. Newbolt

hesitating at the door. “It’s shameful tocome around disturbin’ folks at this hour.But when a body’s in trouble, ColonelPrice, time seems long.”

“It’s the same with all of us,” said he.“But Miss Price will be down presently. Ithink I hear her now. Just step in, ma’am.”

She looked deprecatingly at her dustyshoes, standing there in the parlor door,her skirts gathered back from them.

“If I could wipe some of this dust off,”said she.

“Never mind that; we are all made ofit,” the colonel said. “I’ll have the womanset you out some breakfast; afterwardwe’ll talk about the boy.”

“I thank you kindly, Colonel Price, but Ialready et, long ago, what little I hadstomach for,” said she.

“Then if you will excuse me for amoment, madam?” begged the colonel,seeing her seated stiffly in an upholsteredchair.

She half rose in acknowledgment of hisbow, awkward and embarrassed.

“You’re excusable, sir,” said she.The colonel dashed away down the

hall. She was only a mountain woman,certainly, but she was a lady by virtue ofhaving been a gentleman’s wife. And shehad caught him without a coat!

Mrs. Newbolt sat stiffly in the parlor insurroundings which were of the firstmagnitude of grandeur to her, with corn

pictures adorning the walls along withsome of the colonel’s early transgressionsin landscapes, and the portraits ofcolonels in the family line who had gonebefore. That was the kind of fixings Joewould like, thought she, nodding herserious head; just the kind of things thatJoe would enjoy and understand, like agentleman born to it.

“Well, he comes by it honest,” said shealoud.

Colonel Price did not keep her waitinglong. He came back in a black coat thatwas quite as grand as Judge Little’s, andalmost as long. That garment was the markof fashion and gentility in that part of thecountry in those days, a style that hasoutlived many of the hearty old gentlemenwho did it honor, and has descended even

to this day with their sons.“My son’s innocent of what they lay to

him, Colonel Price,” said Mrs. Newbolt,with impressive dignity which lifted herimmediately in the colonel’s regard.

Even an inferior woman could notassociate with a superior man that longwithout some of his gentility passing toher, thought he. Colonel Price inclined hishead gravely.

“Madam, Peter Newbolt’s son neverwould commit a crime, much less thecrime of murder,” he said, yet with moresincerity in his words, perhaps, than lay inhis heart.

“I only ask you to hold back yourdecision on him till you can learn thetruth,” said she, unconsciously passingover the colonel’s declaration of

confidence. “You don’t remember Joemaybe, for he was only a little shaver thelast time you stopped at our house whenyou was canvassin’ for office. That’s beenten or ’leven–maybe more–years ago. Joe,he’s growed considerable since then.”

“They do, they shoot up,” said thecolonel encouragingly.

“Yes; but Joe he’s nothing like me. Heruns after his father’s side of the family,and he’s a great big man in size now,Colonel Price; but he’s as soft at heart asa dove.”

So she talked on, telling him what sheknew. When she had finished laying thecase of Joe before him, the colonel satthinking it over a bit, one hand in hisbeard, his head slightly bowed. Mrs.Newbolt watched him with anxious eyes.

Presently he looked at her and smiled. Agreat load of uncertainty went up from herheart in a sigh.

“The first thing to do is to get him alawyer, and the best one we can nail,” thecolonel said.

She nodded, her face losing its worriedtension.

“And the next thing is for Joe to make aclean breast of everything, holding backnothing that took place between him andIsom that night.”

“I’ll tell him to do it,” said she eagerly,“and I know he will when I tell him yousaid he must.”

“I’ll go over to the sheriff’s with youand see him,” said the colonel, avoidingthe use of the word “jail” with a delicacy

that was his own.“I’m beholden to you, Colonel Price,

for all your great kindness,” said she.There had been no delay in the matter of

returning an indictment against Joe. Thegrand jury was in session at that time,opportunely for all concerned, and on theday that Joe was taken to the county jailthe case was laid before that body by theprosecuting attorney. Before the grand juryadjourned that day’s business a true billhad been returned against Joe Newbolt,charging him with the murder of IsomChase.

There was in Shelbyville at that time alawyer who had mounted to his professionlike a conqueror, over the heads of hisfellow-townsmen as stepping-stones.Perhaps it would be nearer the mark to say

that the chins of the men of Shelbyvillewere the rungs in this ladder, for thelawyer had risen from the barber’s chair.He had shaved and sheared his way fromthat ancient trade, in which he had beenrespected as an able hand, to the equallyancient profession, in which he wascutting a rather ludicrous and lumberingfigure.

But he had that enterprise and lack ofmodesty which has lately become thefashion among young lawyers–and isspreading fast among the old ones, too–which carried him into places and caseswhere simply learning would have lefthim without a brief. If a case did not cometo Lawyer Hammer, Lawyer Hammerwent to the case, laid hold of it by force,and took possession of it as a kidnaper

carries off a child.Hammer was a forerunner of the type of

lawyer so common in our centers ofpopulation today, such as one sees chasingambulances through the streets with abusiness-card in one hand and a contractin the other; such as arrives at the scene ofwreck, fire, and accident along with theundertaker, and always ahead of thedoctors and police.

Hammer had his nose in the wind theminute that Constable Frost came intotown with his prisoner. Before Joe hadbeen in jail an hour he had engagedhimself to defend that unsophisticatedyoungster, and had drawn from him anorder on Mrs. Newbolt for twenty-fivedollars. He had demanded fifty as hisretainer, but Joe knew that his mother had

but twenty-five dollars saved out of hiswages, and no more. He would not budgea cent beyond that amount.

So, as Mrs. Newbolt and Colonel Priceapproached the jail that morning, theybeheld the sheriff and Lawyer Hammercoming down the steps of the countyprison, and between them Joe, likeEugene Aram, “with gyves upon hiswrists.” The sheriff was taking Joe out toarraign him before the circuit judge toplead to the indictment.

The court convened in that samebuilding where all the county’s businesswas centered, and there was no necessityfor taking the prisoner out through onedoor and in at another, for there was apassage from cells to court-rooms. But ifhe had taken Joe that way, the sheriff

would have lost a seldom-presentedopportunity of showing himself on thestreets in charge of a prisoner accused ofhomicide, to say nothing of the grandopening for the use of his ancient wrist-irons.

Lawyer Hammer also enjoyed hisdistinction in that short march. He leanedover and whispered in his client’s ear, sothat there would be no doubt left in thepublic understanding of his relations to theprisoner, and he took Joe’s arm and addedhis physical support to his legal as theydescended the steps.

Mrs. Newbolt was painfully shocked bythe sight of the irons on Joe’s wrists. Shegroaned as if they clamped the flesh of herown.

“Oh, they didn’t need to do that,” she

moaned.Joe doubtless heard her, for he lifted

his face and ran his eyes through thecrowd which had gathered. When he foundher he smiled. That was the first lookColonel Price ever had taken into thelad’s face.

“No,” said he, answering her anguishedoutbreak with a fervency that came fromhis heart, “there was no need of that atall.”

They followed the sheriff and hischarge into the court-room, where Mrs.Newbolt introduced Colonel Price to herson. While Joe and his mother sat inwhispered conversation at the attorney’stable, the colonel studied the youth’scountenance.

He had expected to meet a weak-faced,

bony-necked, shock-headed type ofgangling youngster such as ranged theKentucky hills in his own boyhood. Atbest he had hoped for nothing more than aslow-headed, tobacco-chewing rascalwith dodging, animal eyes. The colonel’spleasure, then, both as an artist and anhonest man, was great on beholding thisunusual face, strong and clear, asinflexible in its molded lines of highpurpose and valiant deeds as a carving inFlemish oak.

Here was the Peter Newbolt of longago, remodeled in a stronger cast, withmore nobility in his brow, more promisein his long, bony jaw. Here was no boy atall, but a man, full-founded and rugged,and as honest as daylight, the colonelknew.

Colonel Price was prepared to believewhatever that young fellow might say, andto maintain it before the world. He was atonce troubled to see Hammer mixed up inthe case, for he detested Hammer as aplebeian smelling of grease, who hadshouldered his unwelcome person into acompany of his betters, which he couldneither dignify nor grace.

The proceedings in court were brief.Joe stood, upon the reading of the long,rambling information by the prosecutingattorney, and entered a calm and dignifiedplea of not guilty. He was held withoutbond for trial two weeks from that day.

In the sheriff’s office Mrs. Newbolt andthe colonel sat with Joe, his wrists freefrom the humiliating irons, and talked thesituation over. Hammer was waiting on

the outside. Colonel Price having wavedhim away, not considering for a momentthe lowering of himself to includeHammer in the conference.

The colonel found that he could not fallinto an easy, advisory attitude with Joe.He could not even suggest what he had sostrongly recommended to Mrs. Newboltbefore meeting her son–that he make aclean breast of all that took place betweenhimself and Isom Chase before thetragedy. Colonel Price felt that he wouldbe taking an offensive and unwarrantedliberty in offering any advice at all on thathead. Whatever his reasons forconcealment and silence were, the coloneltold himself, the young man would befound in the end justified; or if there was arevelation to be made, then he would

make it at the proper time without beingpressed. Of that the colonel felt sure. Agentleman could be trusted.

But there was another matter uponwhich the colonel had no scruples ofsilence, and that was the subject of theattorney upon whom Joe had settled toconduct his affairs.

“That man Hammer is not, to say theleast, the very best lawyer inShelbyville,” said he.

“No, I don’t suppose he is,” allowedJoe.

“Now, I believe in you, Joe, as strongas any man can believe in another––”

“Thank you, sir,” said Joe, lifting hissolemn eyes to the colonel’s face. Thecolonel nodded his acknowledgment.

“But, no matter how innocent you are,you’ve got to stand trial on this outrageouscharge, and the county attorney he’s a hardand unsparing man. You’ll need brains onyour side as well as innocence, forinnocence alone seldom gets a man off.And I’m sorry to tell you, son, that JeffHammer hasn’t got the brains you’ll needin your lawyer. He never did have ’em,and he never will have ’em–never in thismortal world!”

“I thought he seemed kind of sharp,”said Joe, coloring a little at the colonel’simplied charge that he had been taken in.

“He is sharp,” admitted the colonel,“but that’s all there is to him. He canwiggle and squirm like a snake; but he’sgot no dignity, and no learnin’, and whathe don’t know about law would make a

book bigger than the biggest dictionaryyou ever saw.”

“Land’s sake!” said Mrs. Newbolt,lifting up her hands despairingly.

“Oh, I guess he’ll do, Colonel Price,”said Joe.

“My advice would be to turn him outand put somebody else in his place, one ofthe old, respectable heads of theprofession here, like Judge Burns.”

“I wouldn’t like to do that, colonel,”said Joe.

“Well, we’ll see how he behaves,” thecolonel yielded, seeing that Joe felt inhonor bound to Hammer, now that he hadengaged him. “We can put somebody elsein if he goes to cuttin’ up too many didoesand capers.”

Joe agreed that they could, and gave hismother a great deal of comfort andassurance by his cheerful way of facingwhat lay ahead of him. He told her not toworry on his account, and not to come toooften and wear herself out in the longwalk.

“Look after the chickens and things,Mother,” said he, “and I’ll be out of herein two weeks to help you along. There’sten dollars coming to you from Isom’s;you collect that and buy yourself somethings.”

He told her of the order that he hadgiven Hammer for the retaining fee, andasked her to take it up.

“I’ll make it up to you, Mother, when Iget this thing settled and can go to workagain,” said he.

Tears came into her eyes, but no traceof emotion was to be marked by anychange in her immobile face.

“Lord bless you, son, it all belongs toyou!” she said.

“Do you care about reading?” thecolonel inquired, scarcely supposing thathe did, considering the chances which hadbeen his for development in that way.

Mrs. Newbolt answered for Joe, whowas slow and deliberative of speech, andalways stopped to weigh his answer to aquestion, no matter how obvious the replymust be.

“Oh, Colonel Price, if you could seehim!” said she proudly. “Before he wasten years old he’d read the CottageEncyclopedy and the Imitation and theBible–from back to back!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re of astudious mind,” said the colonel.

As often as Joe had heard his motherboast of his achievements with those threenotable books, he had not yet grownhardened to it. It always gave him afeeling of foolishness, and drowned him inblushes. Now it required some time forhim to disentangle himself, but presentlyhe looked at the colonel with a queersmile, as he said:

“Mother always tells that on me.”“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,”

comforted the colonel, marking hisconfusion.

“And all the books he’s borrowed sincethen!” said she, conveying a sense ofmagnitude by the stress of her expression.“He strained his eyes so when he was

seventeen readin’ Shuckspur’s writingsthat the teacher let him have I thought he’dhave to put on specs.”

“My daughter and I have a considerablenumber of books,” said the colonel,beginning to feel about for a bit moreelegance in his method of expression, as athing due from one man of culture toanother, “and if you will express yourdesires I’m sure we shall be glad tosupply you if the scope of our librarypermits.”

Joe thanked him for the offer, thatstrange little smile coming over his faceagain.

“It wouldn’t take much of a library,Colonel Price, to have a great many booksin it that I’ve never read,” said he. “Ihaven’t been easy enough in my mind

since this thing came up to think aboutreading–I’ve got a book in my pocket thatI’d forgotten all about until you mentionedbooks.” He lifted the skirt of his shortcoat, his pocket bulging from the volumewedged into it. “I’ll have a job getting itout, too,” said he.

“It don’t seem to be a very heavyvolume,” smiled the colonel. “What workis it?”

“It’s the Book,” said Joe.Colonel Price laid his hand on the lad’s

shoulder and looked him straight in theface.

“Then you’ve got by you the sum andsubstance of all knowledge, and thebeginning and the end of all philosophy,”said he. “With that work in your hand youneed no other, for it’s the father of all

books.”“I’ve thought that way about it myself

sometimes,” said Joe, as easy andconfident in his manner with the colonel,who represented a world to which he wasa stranger from actual contact, as a goodswimmer in water beyond his depth.

“But if you happen to be coming overthis way in a day or two you might stop inif it wouldn’t trouble you, and I couldname over to you a few books that I’vebeen wanting to read for a long time.”

“I intend to lighten your brief period ofconfinement as much as it is in my powerto do,” declared the colonel, “and I canspeak for my daughter when I say that shewill share my anxiety to make you ascomfortable as human hands can make youin this place, Joe. We’ll come over and

cheer you every little while.”Mrs. Newbolt had sat by, like one who

had been left behind at a way-station by anexpress-train, while the colonel and Joehad talked. They had gone beyond herlimited powers; there was nothing for herto do but wait for them to come back.Now the colonel had reached her point ofcontact again.

“You’ll be rewarded for your kindnessto the widow’s son,” said she, noddingher head earnestly, tears shining in hereyes.

When he was leaving, Colonel Pricefelt that he must make one more effort toinduce Joe to discharge Hammer and puthis case into the hands of a morecompetent man. Joe was firm in hisdetermination to give Hammer a chance.

He was a little sensitive on the matterunder the rind, the colonel could see.

“If I was to hire the best lawyer I couldfind, Colonel Price, people would saythen that I was guilty, sure enough,” saidJoe. “They’d say I was depending more onthe lawyer than myself to come clear.Well, colonel, you know that isn’t thecase.”

That seemed to settle it, at least for thepresent. The colonel summoned thesheriff, who took Joe to his cell. As thecolonel and Mrs. Newbolt passed out,Attorney Hammer appeared, presentinghis order for the money.

Mrs. Newbolt carried her savings withher. When she had paid Hammer she hadsixty cents left in her calloused palm.

“That’s egg money,” said she, tying it in

the corner of her handkerchief. “Oh,colonel, I forgot to ask the sheriff, but doyou reckon they’ll give my Joe enough toeat?”

“I’ll see to that,” said Hammerofficiously.

Hammer was a large, soft man in analpaca-coat and white shirt without acollar. His hair was very black andexceedingly greasy, and brushed downupon his skull until it glittered, catchingevery ray of light in his vicinity like abucket of oil. He walked in long strides,with a sliding motion of the feet, andcarried his hands with the palms turnedoutward, as if ready instantly to closeupon any case, fee, or emolument whichcame in passing contact with him, eventhough it might be on its way to somebody

else.Mrs. Newbolt was not unfavorably

impressed with him, for he seemed veryofficious and altogether domineering inthe presence of the sheriff, but her opinionmay have been influenced perhaps byJoe’s determination to have him whetheror no. She thanked him for his promise ofgood offices in Joe’s behalf, and he tookher arm and impeded her greatly in herprogress down the steps.

After Mrs. Newbolt had taken somerefreshment in the colonel’s house, sheprepared to return home.

“If I had a hoss, madam,” said thecolonel, “I’d hitch up and carry you home.But I don’t own a hoss, and I haven’towned one for nine years, since the citygrew up so around me I had to sell off my

land to keep the taxes from eatin’ me up. IfI did own a hoss now,” he laughed, “I’dhave no place to keep him except underthe bed, like they do the houn’-dogs backin Kentucky.”

She made light of the walk, for Joe’sbright and sanguine carriage had lightenedher sorrow. She had hope to walk homewith, and no wayfarer ever traveled inmore pleasant company.

The colonel and his daughter pressedher to make their home her resting-placewhen in town, even inviting her to take upher abode there until the trial. Thisgenerous hospitality she could not accepton account of the “critters” at home whichneeded her daily care, and the eggs whichhad to be gathered and saved and sold, allagainst the happy day when her boy Joe

would walk out free and clear from thedoor of the county jail.

CHAPTER XIITHE SUNBEAM ON THE

WALL

The sheriff was a mild-mannered man,whose head was shaped like the end of awatermelon. His hair was close-cut andvery thin at the top, due to the fact that allthe nourishing substances both inside andoutside his head, or any way appertainingthereto, went into the maintenance of thesheriff’s mustache, which was at leasttwice as large as Bill Frost’s.

This, of course, was as it should havebeen, for even the poorest kind of a sheriffis more than twice as important as thevery best sort of constable. In those days it

was the custom for sheriffs in that part ofthe country to train up these prodigiousmustaches, perhaps in the belief that suchadornments lent them the appearance ofcompetence and valor, of whichendowments nature had given them noother testimonial. In any event it is knownthat many a two-inch sheriff took his standbehind an eight-inch mustache, andwalked boldly in the honor of hisconstituents.

The sheriff of Shelbyville was a type ofthis class, both in mental depth and facialadornment. He was exceedingly jealous ofhis power, and it was his belief that toomany liberties permitted a prisoner, andtoo many favors shown, acted incontravention of the law’s intent asinterpreted by the prosecuting attorney;

namely, that a person under the cloud ofaccusation should be treated as guilty untilable to prove himself innocent. Thereforethe sheriff would not allow Joe Newboltto leave his cell to meet visitors after hisarraignment.

The meeting between the prisoner andhis mother in the office of the jail was tobe the last of that sort; all who came infuture must see him at the door of his cell.That was the rule laid down to Joe whenhe parted from his mother and ColonelPrice that day.

As a cell in a prison-house, perhapsJoe’s place of confinement was fairlycomfortable. It was situated in thebasement of the old court-house, wherethere was at least light enough tocontemplate one’s misery by, and

sufficient air to set one longing for thefields. There was but one other prisoner, ahorse-thief, waiting for trial.

This loquacious fellow, who waslodged directly across the corridor, tookgreat pains to let Joe see the admirationand esteem in which he held him onaccount of the distinguished charge underwhich he was confined. He annoyed Joe tosuch extent that he asked the sheriff thatevening to shift them about if possible.

“Well, I’ll move him if you say so, but Ileft him there because I thought he’d becompany for you,” said the sheriff. “Idon’t mind talkin’ in this jail when there’sno more than two in it.”

“I don’t want to talk,” said Joe.So the horse-thief was removed to the

farther end of the corridor, where he kept

up a knocking on the bars of his cellduring the early hours of the night, andthen turned off his diversion by imitatingthe sound of a saw on steel, which hecould do with his tongue against his teethwith such realism as to bring the sheriffdown in his nightshirt, with a lantern inone hand and a shotgun in the other.

Joe’s second night in jail passed verymuch like the first, when they had broughthim there all bewildered and dazed. Therewas a grated window in the wall abovehis reach, through which he could see thebranches of an elm-tree, blowing bare ofleaves; beyond that a bit of sky. Joe sat onthe edge of his cot that second night a longtime after the stars came out, gazing up atthe bar-broken bit of sky, reviewing theevents leading up to his situation.

There was no resentment in him againstthe jury of his neighbors whose findinghad sent him to jail under the cloud of thatterrible accusation; he harbored no ill-feeling for the busy, prying little coroner,who had questioned him so impertinently.There was one person alone, in the wholeworld of men, to blame, and that wasCurtis Morgan. He could not have been faraway on the day of the inquest; news ofthe tragic outcome of Ollie’s attempt tojoin him must have traveled to his ears.

Yet he had not come forward to take theload of suspicion from Joe’s shoulders byconfessing the treacherous thing that hehad plotted. He need not have revealed thecomplete story of his trespass upon thehonor of Isom Chase, thought Joe; hecould have saved Ollie’s name before the

neighbors; and yet relieved Joe of allsuspicion. Now that Isom was dead, hecould have married her. But Morgan hadnot come. He was a coward as well as arascal. It was more than likely that, in fearof being found out, he had fled away.

And suppose that he never came back;suppose that Ollie should not elect tostand forth and explain the hidden part ofthat night’s tragedy? She could not beexpected, within reason, to do this. Eventhe thought that she might weaken and doso was abhorrent to Joe. It was not awoman’s part to make a sacrifice like that;the world did not expect it of her. It restedwith Morgan, the traitor to hospitality;Morgan, the ingratiating scoundrel, tocome forward and set him free. Morganalone could act honorably in that clouded

case; but if he should elect to remainhidden and silent, who would be left toanswer but Joe Newbolt?

And should he reveal the thing thatwould bring him liberty? Was freedommore precious than his honor, and thehonor of a poor, shrinking, deludedwoman?

No. He was bound by a gentleman’sobligation; self-assumed, self-appointed.He could not tell.

But what a terrible situation, what anawful outlook for him in such event! Theyhung men for murder on the jail-yardgallows, with a knot of rope behind theleft ear and a black cap over the face. Andsuch a death left a stain upon the name thatnothing would purify. It was an attainderupon generations unborn.

Joe walked his cell in the agony of hissudden and acute understanding of thedesperate length to which this thing mightcarry him. Hammer had protested, withmuch show of certainty, that he would gethim off without much difficulty. Butperhaps Hammer was counting on him toreveal what he had kept to himself at theinquest. What should he do about that inhis relations with Hammer? Should he tellhim about Morgan, and have him set menon his track to drag him back and makehim tell the truth? Granting that they foundhim, who was there to make him speak?

Could not Morgan and Ollie, to covertheir own shame and blame, form a pact ofsilence or denial and turn back his goodintentions in the form of condemnationupon his own head? How improbable and

unworthy of belief his tale, with itsreservations and evasions, would sound toa jury with Morgan and Ollie silent.

The fright of his situation made himfeverish; he felt that he could tear at thewalls with his hands, and scream, andscream until his heart would burst. Hewas unmanned there in the dark. He beganto realize this finally after his frenzy hadthrown him into a fever. He gave over hispacing of the little cell, and sat downagain to reason and plan.

Hammer had made so much talk aboutthe papers which he would get ready thatJoe had been considerably impressed. Hesaw now that it would require somethingmore than papers to make peopleunderstand that he had a gentleman’sreason, and not a thief’s, for concealing

what they had pressed him to reveal.There was a woman first, and that was

about all that Joe could make of thesituation up to that time. She must beprotected, even though unworthy. Noneknew of that taint upon her but himself andthe fugitive author of it, but Joe could notbring himself to contemplate libertybought at the price of her publicdegradation. This conclusion refreshedhim, and dispelled the phantoms from hishot brain.

After the sounds of the town had fallenquiet, and the knocking of feet on thepavement along his prison wall hadceased, Joe slept. He woke steady, andhimself again, long before he could see thesun, yellow on the boughs of the elm-tree.

The sheriff furnished him a piece of

comb, and he smoothed his hair by guess,a desperate character, such as he wasaccounted by the officer, not beingallowed the luxury of a mirror. One mightlick the quicksilver from the back of amirror, or open an artery with a fragmentof it, or even pound the glass and swallowit. Almost anything was nicer thanhanging, so the sheriff said.

Scant as the food had been at Isom’suntil his revolt had forced a revision ofthe old man’s lifelong standard, Joe feltthat morning after his second jail breakfastthat he would have welcomed even a hog-jowl and beans. The sheriff was allowedbut forty cents a day for the maintenanceof each prisoner, and, counting out thetwenty-five cents profit which he felt as apolitician in good standing to be his due,

the prisoners’ picking was very leanindeed.

That morning Joe’s breakfast had beencorn-pone, cold, with no lubricant to easeit down the lane. There had been a certainsqueamish liquid in addition, which gaveoff the smell of a burning straw-stack,served in a large tin cup. Joe had nottasted it, but his nose had told him that itw a s “wheat coffee,” a brew which hismother had made sometimes in the olddays of their darkest adversity.

Joe knew from the experience of theprevious day that there would be nothingmore offered to fortify the stomach untilevening. The horse-thief called up fromhis end of the jail, asking Joe how he likedthe fare.

Reserved as Joe was disposed to be

toward him, he expressed himselfsomewhat fully on the subject of thesheriff’s cuisine. The horse-thiefsuggested a petition to the county court ora letter to the sheriff’s political opponent.He said that his experience in jails hadbeen that a complaint on the food alongabout election time always brought goodresults. Joe was not interested in thematter to that extent. He told the fellowthat he did not expect to be a permanentoccupant of the jail.

“You think you’ll go down the river fora double-nine?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” saidJoe.

“To the pen for life, kid; that’s what Imean.”

“I don’t know,” said Joe gloomily.

“Well, say, I tell you, if they give youthe other,” said the friendly thief, liftinghis naturally high voice to make it carryalong the echoing passage, “you’ll gitplenty to eat, and three times a day, too.When they put a feller in the death-cellthey pass in the finest chuck in the land.You know, if a feller’s got a smart lawyerhe can keep up that line of eatin’ formaybe two or three years by appealin’ hiscase and dodges like that.”

“I don’t want to talk,” said Joe.“Oh, all right, kid,” said the thief

flippantly. Then he rattled his grated doorto draw Joe’s attention.

“But, ’y God, kid, the day’s comin’ toyou when you will want to talk, and whenyou’d give the teeth out of your mouth, andnearly the eyes out of your head, for the

sound of a friendly human voice aimed atyou. Let ’em take you off down the river toJeff’ City and put you behind them tallwalls once, where the best you hear’s acuss from a guard, and where you marchalong with your hands on the shoulders ofthe man in front of you; and another onebehind you does the same to you, and theireyes all down and their faces the color ofcorpses, and then you’ll know!

“You’ll hear them old fellers, themlong-timers, whisperin’ in the night,talkin’ to theirselves, and it’ll sound toyou like wind in the grass. And you’llthink of grass and trees and things like thaton the outside, and you’ll feel like youwant to ram your head ag’in’ the wall andyell. Maybe you’ll do it–plenty of ’emdoes–and then they’ll give you the water-

cure, they’ll force it down you with a hosetill you think you’ll bust. I tell you, kid, Iknow, ’y God! I’ve been there–but not forno double-nine like they’ll give you.”

The man’s voice seemed to be hangingand sounding yet in the corridor, evenafter he was silent, his cruel picturestanding in distorted fancy before Joe’seyes. Joe wiped the sweat from hisforehead, breathing through his openmouth.

“Well, maybe they won’t, though,” saidthe fellow, resuming as if afterconsidering it, “maybe they’ll give you thequick and painless, I don’t know.”

Joe had been standing at his cell door,drawn to listen to the lecture of his fellowprisoner, terrible, hopeless, as it soundedin his ears. Now he sat on his bedside

again, feeling that this was indeed a trueforecast of his own doom. The sun seemedalready shut out from him in the morningof his day, the prison silence settling,never to be broken again in those shadowswhere shuffling men filed by, with eyesdowncast and faces gray, like the faces ofthe dead.

Life without liberty would be a barrenfield, he knew; but liberty without honorwould yield no sweeter fruit. And whowas there in the world of honorable mento respect a coward who had saved hisown skin from the fire by stripping a frailwoman’s back to the brand? A gentlemancouldn’t do it, said Joe, at the end, comingback from his sweating race with fear tothe starting-place, a good deal cooled, nota little ashamed.

Let them use him as they might; hewould stand by his first position in thematter. He would have to keep on lying, ashe had begun; but it would be repeating anhonorable lie, and no man ever went tohell for that.

The sun was coming through the highcell window, broadening its oblique beamupon the wall. Looking up at it, Joethought that it must be mid-morning. Nowthat his panic was past, his stomach beganto make a gnawing and insistent demandfor food. Many a heavy hour must marchby, thought he, before the sheriff camewith his beggarly portion. He felt that incase he should be called upon to endureimprisonment long he must fall away to askeleton and die.

In his end of the corridor the horse-thief

was still, and Joe was glad of it. Nomatter how earnestly he might come todesire the sound of a human voice in time,he did not want to hear the horse-thief’sthen, nor any other that prophesied suchdisquieting things.

There was a barred gate across thecorridor at the foot of the stairs which ledup to the sheriff’s office. Joe’s heartjumped with the hope that it was hismother coming when he heard the key inthe lock and voices at the grating.

“Right down there, to the right,” thesheriff was directing. “When you want toleave just come here and rattle the lock. Ican’t take no chances bringin’ suchdesperate fellers as him up to the office,colonel. You can see that as well as me.”

What Colonel Price replied Joe could

not hear, for his low-modulated voice ofculture was like velvet beside a horse-blanket compared to the sheriff’s.

“I’m over on this side, colonel, sir,”said Joe before he could see him.

And then the colonel stepped into thelight which came through the cell window,bringing with him one who seemed as fairto Joe in that somber place as the brightcreatures who stood before Jacob inBethel that night he slept with his headupon a stone.

“This is my daughter,” said ColonelPrice. “We called in to kind of cheer youup.”

She offered Joe her hand between thebars; his went forward to meet itgropingly, for it lacked the guidance of hiseyes.

Joe was honey-bound, like an eager beein the heart of some great golden flower,tangled and leashed in a thousand strandsof her hair. The lone sunbeam of hisprison had slipped beyond the lintel of hislow door, as if it had timed its coming towelcome her, and now it lay like a hand inbenediction above her brow.

Her hair was as brown as wild honey; agolden glint lay in it here and there underthe sun, like the honeycomb. A smilekindled in her brown eyes as she looked athim, and ran out to the corners of them inlittle crinkles, then moved slowly uponher lips. Her face was quick with theeagerness of youth, and she was tall.

“I’m surely beholden to you, MissPrice, for this favor,” said Joe, lapsinginto the Kentucky mode of speech, “and

I’m ashamed to be caught in such a placeas this.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,”said she; “we know you are innocent.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss Price,” said hewith quaint, old courtesy that came to himfrom some cavalier of Cromwell’s day.

“I thought you’d better meet Alice,”explained the colonel, “and get acquaintedwith her, for young people have tastes incommon that old codgers like me haveoutgrown. She might see some way that Iwould overlook to make you morecomfortable here during the time you willbe obliged to wait.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joe, hearing thecolonel’s voice, but not making much outof what he was saying.

He was thinking that out of the gloom ofhis late cogitations she had come, likehope hastening to refute the argument ofthe horse-thief. His case could not be sodespairing with one like her believing inhim. It was a matter beyond a person suchas a horse-thief, of course. One of a finernature could understand.

“Father spoke of some books,” sheventured; “if you will––”

Her voice was checked suddenly by asound which rose out of the farther end ofthe corridor and made her start and clutchher father’s arm. Joe pressed his faceagainst the bars and looked along at hisfellow prisoner, who was dragging his tincup over the bars of his cell door withrapid strokes.

When the thief saw that he had drawn

the attention of the visitors, he thrust hisarm out and beckoned to the colonel.“Mister, I want to ask you to do me a littleturn of a favor,” he begged in a voice newto Joe, so full of anguish, so tremulous andweak. “I want you to carry out to theworld and put in the papers the lastmessage of a dyin’ man!”

“What’s the matter with you, you poorwretch?” asked the colonel, moved topity.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,”advised Joe; “he’s only acting up. He’s asstrong as I am. I think he wants to begfrom you.”

The colonel turned away from him toresume his conference with Joe, and thehorse-thief once more rattled his cupacross the bars.

“That noise is very annoying,” said thecolonel, turning to the man tartly. “Stop itnow, before I call the sheriff!”

“Friend, it’s a starvin’ man that’sappealin’ to you,” said the prisoner, “it’sa man that ain’t had a full meal in threeweeks. Ask that gentleman what we githere, let him tell you what this here sheriffthat’s up for election agin serves to uspoor fellers. Corn dodger for breakfast, socold you could keep fish on it, and as hardas the rocks in this wall! That’s what wegit, and that’s all we git. Ask your friend.”

“Is he telling the truth?” asked thecolonel, looking curiously at Joe.

“I’m afraid he is, colonel, sir.”“I’ll talk to him,” said the colonel.In a moment he was listening to the

horse-thief’s earnest relation of thehardships which he had suffered in theShelbyville jail, and Joe and Alice werestanding face to face, with less than ayard’s space between them, but a barrierthere as insuperable as an alp.

He wanted to say something to causeher to speak again, for her low voice wasas wonderful to him as the sound of somestrange instrument moved to unexpectedmusic by a touch in the dark. He saw herlooking down the corridor, and swiftlyaround her, as if afraid of what lay in theshadows of the cells, afraid of thememories of old crimes which they held,and the lingering recollection of the menthey had contained.

“He’ll not do any harm, don’t beafraid,” said he.

“No, I’m not,” she told him, drawing alittle nearer, quite unconsciously, heknew, as she spoke. “I was thinking howdreadful it must be here for you,especially in the night. But it will not befor long,” she cheered him; “we knowthey’ll soon set you free.”

“I suppose a person would think aguilty man would suffer more here than aninnocent one,” said he, “but I don’t thinkthat’s so. That man down there knows he’sgoing to be sent to the penitentiary forstealing a horse, but he sings.”

She was looking at him, a little cloud ofperplexity in her eyes, as if there wassomething about him which she had notlooked for and did not quite understand.She blushed when Joe turned toward her,slowly, and caught her eyes at their

sounding.He was thinking over a problem new to

him, also–the difference in women. Therewas Ollie, who marked a period in his lifewhen he began to understand these things,dimly. Ollie was not like this one in anyparticular that he could discover ascommon between them. She was far backin the past today, like a simple lesson,hard in its hour, but conquered and put by.Here was one as far above Ollie as a star.

Miss Price began to speak of books,reaching out with a delicate hesitancy, asif she feared that she might lead intowaters too deep for him to follow. Hequickly relieved her of all danger ofembarrassment on that head by telling herof some books which he had not read, butwished to read, holding to the bars as he

talked, looking wistfully toward the spotof sunlight which was now growing asslender as a golden cord against the graywall. His eyes came back to her face, tofind that look of growing wonder there, tosee her quick blush mount and consume itin her eyes like a flame.

“You’ve made more of the books thatyou’ve read than many of us with ahundred times more,” said she warmly.“I’ll be ashamed to mention books to youagain.”

“You oughtn’t say that,” said he,hanging his head in boyish confusion,feeling that same sense of shyness anddesire to hide as came over him when hismother recounted his youthful campaignagainst the three books on the Newboltshelf.

“You remember what you get out ofthem,” she nodded gravely, “I don’t.”

“My father used to say that was oneadvantage in having a few,” said he.

The colonel joined them then, the loud-spoken benediction of the horse-thieffollowing him. There was a flush ofindignation in his face and fire in his eyes.

“I’ll expose the scoundrel; I’ll showhim that he can’t rob both the county andthe helpless men that misfortune throwsinto his hands!” the colonel declared.

He gave his hand to Joe in hisceremonious fashion.

“I’ve got some pressing business aheadof me with the sheriff,” he said, “andwe’ll be going along. But I’ll manage tocome over every few days and bring what

cheer I can to you, Joe.”“Don’t put yourself out,” said Joe; “but

I’ll be mighty glad to see you any time.”“This is only a cloud in your life, boy;

it will pass, and leave your sky serene andbright,” the colonel cheered.

“I’ll see how many of the books thatyou’ve named we have,” said Alice. “I’mafraid we haven’t them all.”

“I’ll appreciate anything at all,” saidJoe.

He looked after her as far as his eyescould follow, and then he listened untilher footsteps died, turning his head,checking his breath, as if holding his verylife poised to catch the fading music ofsome exquisite strain.

When she was quite out of hearing, he

sighed, and marked an imaginary line uponthe wall. Her head had reached to there,just on a level with a certain bolt. Hemeasured himself against it to see where itstruck in his own height. It was just aboy’s trick. He blushed when he foundhimself at it.

He sat on his bedside and took up theBook. The humor for reading seemed tohave passed away from him for then. Butthere was provender for thought, newthought, splendid and bright-colored. Hefelt that he had been associating, for thefirst time in his life, with his own kind. Henever had seen Alice Price before thatday, for their lives had been separated byall that divides the eminent from thelowly, the rich from the poor, and seeingher had been a moving revelation. She had

come into his troubled life and soothed it,marking a day never to be forgotten. Hesat there thinking of her, the unopenedbook in his hand.

How different she was from Ollie, thewild rose clambering unkept beside thehedge. She was so much more delicate inform and face than Ollie–Ollie, who–There was a sense of sacrilege in thethought. He must not name her with Ollie;he must not think of them in the measure ofcomparison. Even such juxtaposition wasdefiling for Alice. Ollie, the unclean!

Joe got up and walked his cell. Howuncouth he was, thought he, his trousers inhis boot-tops, his coat spare upon hisgrowing frame. He regarded himself witha feeling of shame. Up to that time henever had given his clothing any thought.

As long as it covered him, it wassufficient. But it was different after seeingAlice. Alice! What a soothing name!

Joe never knew what Colonel Pricesaid to the sheriff; but after the little gleamof sun had faded out of his cell, and thegnawings of his stomach had becomepainfully acute, his keeper came downwith a basket on his arm. He took from it adinner of boiled cabbage and beef, such asa healthy man might lean upon withconfidence, and the horse-thief came in forhis share of it, also.

When the sheriff came to Joe’s cell forthe empty dishes, he seemed verysolicitous for his comfort and welfare.

“Need any more cover on your bed, oranything?”

No, Joe thought there was enough

cover; and he did not recall in his presentsatisfied state of stomach, that his celllacked any other comfort that the sheriffcould supply.

“Well, if you want anything, all you’vegot to do is holler,” said the sheriff in afriendly way.

There is nothing equal to running foroffice to move the love of a man for hisfellows, or to mellow his heart tomagnanimous deeds.

“Say,” called the horse-thief in voicesoftened by the vapors of his steamingdinner, “that friend of yours with thewhiskers all over him is ace-high overhere in this end of the dump! And say,friend, they could keep me here for life ifthey’d send purty girls like that one downhere to see me once in a while. You’re in

right, friend; you certainly air in right!”

Colonel Price had kindled a fire in hislibrary that night, for the first chill of frostwas in the air. He sat in meditative pose,the newspaper spread wide and crumplingupon the floor beside him in his listlesslyswinging hand. The light of the blazinglogs was laughing in his glasses, and thesoft gleam of the shaded lamp was on hishair.

Books by the hundred were there in theshelves about him. Old books, brown inthe dignity of age and service togenerations of men; new books, tuckedamong them in bright colors, like transientblooms in the homely stability of gardensoil. There was a long oak table, made ofnative lumber and finished in its natural

color, smoke-brown from age, like thebooks; and there was Alice, like a nimblebee skimming the sweets of flowers,flitting here and there in this scholar’ssanctuary.

Colonel Price looked up out of hismeditation and followed her with a smile.

“Have you found them all?” he asked.“I’ve found Milton and The Lays of

Ancient Rome and Don Quixote, but Ican’t find the Meditations of MarcusAurelius,” said she.

“Judge Maxwell has it,” he nodded; “hecarried it away more than a month ago. Itwas the first time he ever met an Englishtranslation, he said. I must get it from him;he has a remarkably short memory forborrowed books.”

Alice joined him in the laugh over thejudge’s shortcoming.

“He’s a regular old dear!” she said.“Ah, yes; if he was only forty years

younger, Alice–if he was only forty yearsyounger!” the colonel sighed.

“I like him better the way he is,” saidshe.

“Where did that boy ever hear tell ofMarcus Aurelius?” he wondered.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Idon’t understand him, he seems so strangeand deep. He’s not like a boy. You’dthink, from talking with him, that he’d haduniversity advantages.”

“It’s blood,” said the colonel, with theproud swelling of a man who can boastthat precious endowment himself, “you

can’t keep it down. There’s no use talkingto me about this equality between men atthe hour of birth; it’s all a poetic fiction. Itwould take forty generations of thisEuropean scum such as is beginning todrift across to us and taint our nationalatmosphere to produce one Joe Newbolt!And he’s got blood on only one side, atthat.

“But the best in all the Newboltgenerations that have gone before seem tobe concentrated in that boy. He’ll comethrough this thing as bright as a new bullet,and he’ll make his mark in the world, too.Marcus Aurelius. Well, bless my soul!”

“Is it good?” she asked, stacking thebooks which she had selected on the table,standing with her hand on them, lookingdown at her smiling father with serious

face.“I wouldn’t say that it would be good

for a young lady with forty beaus andunable to choose among them, or for afrivolous young thing with three dances aweek––”

“Oh, never more than two at the veryheight of social dissipation inShelbyville!” she laughed.

He lifted a finger, imposing silence, anda laugh lurked in his eyes.

“No, I’d not say that such a light-headedcreature would find much fodder in theruminations and speculations and wiseconclusions of our respected friend,Marcus,” said he. “But a lad like JoeNewbolt, with a pair of eyes in his headlike a prophet, will get a great deal ofgood, and even comfort, out of that book.”

“We must get it from Judge Maxwell,”said she conclusively.

“A strange lad, a strange lad,” reflectedthe colonel.

“So tall and strong,” said she. “Why,from the way his mother spoke of him, Iexpected to see a little fellow withtrousers up to his knees.”

She sat at the table and began cutting theleaves of a new magazine.

Colonel Price lifted his paper,smoothed the crumples out of it, adjustedthe focus of his glasses, and resumedreading the county news. They seemedcontented and happy there, alone, withtheir fire in the chimney. Fire itself is acompanion. It is like youth in a room.

There was between them a feeling of

comradeship and understanding whichseldom lives where youth stands on onehand, age on the other. Years ago Alice’smother had gone beyond the storms andvexations of this life. Those tworemaining of the little family had drawntogether, closing up the space that herabsence had made. There seemed nodisparity of years, and their affection andfidelity had come to be a communitypride.

Alice was far from being the frivolousyoung thing that her father’s banterindicated. She had a train of admirers,never thinning from year to year, to becertain, for it had been the regular fate ofadolescent male Shelbyville to get itselftangled up in love with Alice Price eversince her high-school days. Many of the

youngsters soon outgrew the affection; butit seemed to become a settled andpermanent affliction in others, threateningto incapacitate them from happiness,according to their young view of it, andblast their ambitions in the face of theworld.

Every girl, to greater or less extent, hasher courtiers of that kind. Nature hasarranged this sort of tribute for the littlequeen-bees of humanity’s hives. And sothere were other girls in Shelbyville whohad their train of beaus, but there wasnone quite so popular or so much desiredas Alice Price.

Alice was considered the first beauty ofthe place. Added to this primarydesirability was the fact that, in the finegradations of pedigrees and the stringent

exactions of blood which the patricianfamilies of Shelbyville drew, ColonelPrice and his daughter were the topmostplumes on the peacock of aristocracy.Other young ladies seemed to make allhaste to assuage the pangs of at least oneyoung man by marrying him, and to bluntthe hopes of the rest by that decisive act.Not so Alice Price. She was frank andfriendly, as eager for the laughter of life asany healthy young woman should be, butshe gave the young men kindly counselwhen they became insistent or boresome,and sent them away.

Shelbyville was founded byKentuckians; some of the old State’s bestfamilies were represented there. Aperson’s pedigree was his credentials inthe society of the slumbering little town,

nestled away among the blue hills ofMissouri. It did not matter so much aboutone’s past, for blood will have itsvagaries and outflingings of youthfulspirit; and even less what the futurepromised, just so there was blood tovouch for him at the present.

Blood had not done a great deal forShelbyville, no matter what itsexcellencies in social and political life.The old town stood just about as it wasfinished, sixty years and more before thattime. Upstart cities had sprung up not faraway, throwing Shelbyville into hopelessshadow. The entire energies of itspioneers seemed to have been expended inits foundation, leaving them too muchexhausted to transmit any of their formerfire and strength to their sons. It followed

that the sons of Shelbyville were not whattheir fathers had been.

Of course, there were exceptions whereone of them rose once in a while and madea streak across the state or nationalfirmament. Some of them were eminent inthe grave professions; most of them wereconductors of street cars in Kansas City,the nearest metropolis. There was notroom in Shelbyville for all its sons toestablish themselves at law, even if theyhad all been equipped, and if a man couldnot be a lawyer or a college professor,what was open to him, indeed, butconducting a street-car? That was a placidlife.

It is remarkable how Kentuckians canmaintain the breed of their horses throughmany generations, but so frequently fall

short in the standard of their sons.Kentuckians are only an instance. Thesame might be said of kings.

Not understanding her exactions in thematter, nor her broader requirements,Shelbyville could not make out why AlicePrice remained unmated. She was almosttwenty, they said, which was coming veryclose to the age-limit in Shelbyville. Itwas nothing unusual for girls to marrythere at seventeen, and becomegrandmothers at thirty-seven.

If she wanted better blood than shecould find in Shelbyville, the oldgentlemen said, twisting their white oldheads in argumentative finality, she’d haveto go to the nobility of Europe. Even thenshe’d be running her chances, by Ned!They grew indignant when she refused to

have their sons. They took it up with thecolonel, they remonstrated, they went intopedigrees and offered to producedocuments.

There was Shelley Bryant’s father, afine, straight-backed old gentleman withbeard as white as the plumage of a dove.His son was a small, red-faced, sandy-haired, pale-eyed chap with spacesbetween his big front teeth. He traded inhorses, and sometimes made as much asfifteen dollars on a Saturday. Hismagnitude of glory and manly dignity ascompared to his father’s was about that ofa tin pan to the sun.

When Alice refused Shelley, the oldgeneral–he had won the title in war, unlikeColonel Price–went to the colonel andlaid the matter off with a good deal of

emphasis and flourishing of his knottedblack stick. If a woman demanded blood,said the general, where could she aspireabove Shelley? And beyond blood, whatwas there to be considered when it cameto marrying and breeding up a race ofmen?

Champion that he was of blood andlineage, Colonel Price was nettled by theold gentleman’s presumptuous urging ofhis unlikely son’s cause.

“I am of the opinion, sir,” ColonelPrice replied, with a good bit of hauteurand heat, “that my daughter always hasgiven, and always will give, thepreference to brains!”

General Bryant had not spoken to thecolonel for two months after that, and hisson Shelley had proved his superiority by

going off to Kansas City and taking a jobreading gas-meters.

Colonel Price went to the mantel andfilled his pipe from the tobacco-jar. Hesat smoking for a little while, his paper onhis knee.

“The lad’s in deeper trouble, I’mafraid, than he understands,” said he atlast, as if continuing his reflections aloud,“and it may take a bigger heave to pullhim out than any of us think right now.”

“Oh, I hope not,” said Alice, lookingacross at him suddenly, her eyes wideopen with concern. “I understood that thiswas just a preliminary proceeding, a sortof formality to conform to the legalrequirements, and that he would bereleased when they brought him up beforeJudge Maxwell. At least, that was the

impression that he gave me of the casehimself.”

“Joe is an unsophisticated and honestlad,” said the colonel. “There issomething in the case that he refused todisclose or discuss before the coroner’sjury, they say. I don’t know what it is, butit’s in relation to the quarrel between himand Isom Chase which preceded thetragedy. He seems to raise a point ofhonor on it, or something. I heard them saythis afternoon that it was nothing but thefear that it would disclose his motive forthe crime. They say he was making offwith old Chase’s money, but I don’tbelieve that.”

“They’re wrong if they think that,” saidshe, shaking her head seriously, “he’dnever do a thing like that.”

“No, I don’t believe he would. But theyfound a bag of money in the room, oldChase had it clamped in the hook of hisarm, they say.”

“Well, I’m sure Joe Newbolt never hadhis hands on it, anyhow,” said she.

“That’s right,” approved the colonel,nodding in slow thoughtfulness; “we muststand up for him, for his own sake as wellas Peter’s. He’s worthy.”

“And he’s innocent. Can’t you see that,father?”

“As plain as daylight,” the colonel said.The colonel stretched out his legs

toward the blaze, crossed his feet andsmoked in comfort.

“But I wonder what it can be that theboy’s holding back?”

“He has a reason for it, whatever it is,”she declared.

“That’s as certain as taxes,” said thecolonel. “He’s a remarkable boy,considering the chances he’s had–boundout like a nigger slave, and beaten andstarved, I’ll warrant. A remark-able lad;very, very. Don’t you think so, Alice?”

“I think he is, indeed,” said she.A long silence.A stick in the chimney burned in two,

the heavy ends outside the dogs droppeddown, the red brands pointing upward.The colonel put his hand to his beard andsat in meditation. The wind was rising.Now and then it sounded like a groan inthe chimney-top. Gray ashes formed, frost-like, over the ardent coals. The silencebetween them held unbroken.

Both sat, thought-wandering, lookinginto the fire....

CHAPTER XIIIUNTIL THE DAY BREAK

Although Isom Chase had been in hisgrave a week, and Judge Little had beencracking his coat-tails over the roadbetween his home and the county-seatdaily, the matter of the will and theadministration of the estate remained as inthe beginning.

Judge Little had filed the will forprobate, and had made application forletters of administration, which the courthad denied. Under the terms of the will, itwas pointed out, he was empowered to actin that capacity only in case of thetestator’s death before the majority of the

legatee. The date of the document provedthat the heir was now long past hismajority, and the only interest thatremained to Judge Little in the matterseemed to be the discovery of thetestator’s unknown, unseen, andunbelieved-in son.

If Isom ever had fathered a son, indeed,and the child had died in infancy, the facthad slipped the recollection of the oldestsettler. Perhaps the proof of thatmysterious matter lay in the hands of thetwo witnesses to Isom’s will. They shouldknow, if anybody knew, people said.

One of these witnesses, ThomasCogshawl, had died long since, and thereremained behind neither trace norremembrance of him save a leaning,yellowed tombstone carrying the record of

his achievements in this world. They weresuccinctly recounted in two words: Bornand Died. His descendants were scattered,his family dispersed.

The other witness, John Owens, was inthe county poorhouse, deaf, dumb, andblind, his children dead, his money gone.Communication with him, except by prodsand thumps, had been out of the questionfor ten years and more.

On the advice of her neighbors, Olliehad engaged a lawyer to guard herinterests, and make a fight in the courts, ifit came to that, in an effort to retain theproperty. It was a shame, said theneighbors; Isom never had a son, or, if hedid have one, he had no business to do anysuch surreptitious fathering.

While they denounced Isom, Judge

Little was advertising in the metropolitanpapers for the mysterious legatee, forthere is no man so faithful to his trust asthe administrator of another’s estate.Although the property had not yetsucceeded to his hands, the judge wasproceeding in confidence. If the existenceof Isom Chase’s son could not be proved,neither could it be disproved.

And there stood the will in Isom’swriting as plain as cow tracks, naminghim as administrator. It would all workinto his hands at the end, and there wererewards and emoluments for anadministrator who understood hisbusiness, in that estate.

That is true in the case of any executorin the affairs of dead men, or receiver inthe muddled business of the living. That

accounts for such men’s inflexibility incarrying out the provisions of unfeelingtestators and the decrees of heartlesscourts. The law must be applied to theletter, the wishes of the deceased fulfilledto the last hateful particular, for the longerthe administrator or receiver is in place,the longer flows the soothing stream offees.

Ollie had passed out of the brieftranquillity which had settled on her afterthe inquest and funeral. Worry hadovertaken her again, and a longing for thereturn of Morgan, which seemed destinednever to be quieted.

There was not so much concern for herin the ultimate disposal of Isom’s estate,for she had consoled herself all along,since the discovery of the will, that she

would soon be above the need of hismiserly scrapings and hoarded revenuesof stint. Morgan would come, triumphantin his red-wheeled buggy, and bear heraway to the sweet recompense of love,and the quick noises of life beyond thatdrowsy place. For Morgan, and love, shecould give it all over without one regret,or a glance behind.

Yet, with the thought of what shealready had given for Morgan and love aquick catching of pain, a troubled stirringbordering on panic, rose in her breast.Where was Morgan, why did he remainaway when he might come boldly now,like a man, and claim his own? What ifMorgan never should come back? What ifshe should find herself a double widow,bereft of both the living and the dead?

During her days she watched for him,straining her eyes up and down the dust-white road. At night her cheek burnedupon her pillow, and her tears ran down,yearning for the man who had her heart’slove in his keeping and seemed unworthyof the trust.

At such times her anger would flamehot against Joe. If he had not come into heraffairs and muddled them, like a calf in akitchen, all of this uncertainty and longingwould have been spared her. And it wouldbe like the fool now, the miserable,bleating bull-calf, to turn back on hisword and betray her. In that case, whatshould she do? Bow her head, meekly, andbear him out? She did not think so. Therewas little chance that anybody wouldcredit Joe if he should turn now on his

own evidence, less if she should maintainthat his first version of the tragedy wastrue. For what he had done by hisimpertinent meddling between her andMorgan he deserved to suffer. He mustgrin and bear it now, said she.

Besides this feeling of revenge on Joe’sluckless head, Ollie had her reasons ofselfishness and security for desiring himout of the way. With him in prison for along time–people said it would be forlife–the secret of her indiscretion withMorgan would be safe. And then, ifMorgan never came back, perhapsanother.

But she recoiled from the thought thatthey might hang Joe for the murder ofIsom. She did not want him hung, forthrough her gathering cloud of blame for

his too faithful guardianship of hismaster’s house, she had gleams oftenderness and gratitude for him. Shecould not help comparing him withMorgan in such moments of softness.Morgan had let that boy drive him away;he seemed to have gone with such a terrorof him that he never had looked back. Joe,on the other hand, had stood by herthrough the storm. No, she did not wantthem to hang Joe, but it would be quiteeasy and comfortable with him out of theway for a long, long time.

Public opinion was framing towardgiving her the relief that she desired. Ifanybody suspected that Ollie wasconcerned in her husband’s death, it wassome remote person whose opinion didnot affect the public mind. The current

belief was that Joe alone was to blame.No matter how severe the world may be

upon a woman after she is down in themire, there is no denying that it is reluctantto tumble her from her eminence andthrow her there. A woman will find morechampions than detractors in the face ofthe most serious charge; especially ayoung and pretty one, or one whose lifehas been such as to shape sympathy for herin itself.

All her neighbors knew that Isom’swife had suffered. That year of penance inher life brought Ollie before them in asituation which was an argument and pleafor their sympathy and support.

In spite, then, of the coroner’s attempt atthe inquest to drag Ollie into the tragedy,and to give foundation for his shrewd

suspicion that there had been somethingbetween Isom’s wife and bondman whichthe husband was unaware of, no sensationnor scandal had come of that. The casewas widely talked of, and it was the hopeof every voter in the county that he wouldbe drawn on the jury to try the boyaccused of the murder. Even the busiestfarmers began to plan their affairs so theywould have at least one day to spare toattend the trial at its most interesting point.

The date set for the trial wasapproaching, and so was election day. Theprosecuting attorney, being up forreelection, hadn’t time, at that busy hour,to try a homicide case. He had to makespeeches, and bestir himself to save hisvaluable services to the state. The manpenned in jail, growing thin of cheek and

lank of limb, could wait. There would beother homicide cases, but there neverwould be another prosecuting attorney sovaluable as that one offering himself, andhis young ambitions, on the altar of publicservice. That was according to his view.So he notified Hammer that the statewould not be ready for trial on the day set.

This pleased Hammer well enough, forthe greater the delay the wider thenotoriety of the case would spread, thelarger his audience would be. By mutualagreement, the case was put over for onemonth.

Joe protested against this delay in vain.Hammer said that they would profit by it,as the ferment of the public mind wouldsettle meantime, and prejudice would notbe so sharp. He talked a great deal about

“character witnesses,” which Joe couldn’tsee the need of, and took down the namesof all the people whom Joe could name ashaving known him all his life. ThenHammer went his way, to make speechesin the campaign in support of the worthysheriff.

So Joe found himself with anothermonth ahead of him before he could evenhope to walk out into the sun again.

Jail was wearing on him. The disgraceof it was torture to his sensitive mind,without the physical chafing to pull himdown to bones. Those two weeks hadtaken off his frame a great deal of the fleshthat he had gained during the summer. Hisgauntness was more pronounced than itever had been before.

Mrs. Newbolt walked in twice a week

to see him, carrying with her a basket ofbiscuits and other homely things dear toher son’s palate. All of which the sheriffspeared with knitting-needles, and tried onvarious domestic animals, to make certainthat the Widow Newbolt did not cheat thegallows out of its due by concealing sawsin pies, or introducing poison to herhopeless offspring in boiled eggs.

But all of her tempting relishes, or suchof them, at least, as reached Joe, werepowerless to fill his hollow cheeks,growing thinner and paler day by day. Hecould not eat with relish, he could notsleep with peace. If it had not been for thenew light that Alice Price had brought intohis life, he must have burned his youngheart to ashes in his restiveness.

Twice again the colonel and Alice had

visited Joe, once to carry to him the booksfor which he had expressed a desire, andagain to bring the Meditations of MarcusAurelius, which Alice herself had goneafter to Judge Maxwell’s house. Each timeJoe fancied that she left a radiance behindher that brightened and warmed his cellfor days.

Nobody else in the town troubledhimself about the prisoner’s welfare, fornobody else knew him. Two of theministers had called at the jail in the firstdays of Joe’s incarceration, in a sort ofurging-to-penitence state of mind, just as ifthey were assured of Joe’s guilt by reasonof his very obscurity. Joe had told themthat he had a religion of his own whichseemed to fill all present needs, and didnot want to make any change. He was

respectful, but lofty in his bearing. So theyput him down as a stiff-necked son ofBelial, and went away, leaving him tosave himself if he thought he was equal tothe task, in a manner of challenge.

In the face of this clerical abandonment,people wondered over the deep interestthat Colonel Price and his daughterseemed to have in the Widow Newbolt’sson, who had neither pride of family norof possessions to recommend him.

Joe had not yet brought himself to thebelief that it was necessary to take hislawyer into his confidence, althoughHammer had made it unfeelingly plain tohim that the withholding of any vital factwould be fatal to his cause. Although Joewas beginning to experience a deep anddisquieting concern about the outcome of

the trial, he was disposed to give Morganan honest man’s chance to come forwardand take his share of it upon himself. If heshould do that, then Joe felt that he wouldbe morally free to disclose all that tookplace in the kitchen on the night Isom losthis life.

In case that Morgan did not come, orthat he had gone beyond the reach ofHammer or anybody else to fetch himback, then there would not be one word ofevidence to uphold him, or justify hisseemingly ridiculous stand of reticence.Yet, perhaps Morgan was waiting until thetrial day; perhaps he knew all about it, andwould appear in time. So argued Joe, inhis great desire to be just to everybody.

He reviewed the matter in this wisewith ceaseless repetition, always arriving

at this same end, from which he drew thecomfort of hope. Perhaps Morgan wouldcome in time. At any event, he would waituntil the last minute of the last hour, andgive him a man’s chance to do what washonorable and fair.

The talkative horse-thief had been triedand condemned, and had gone his cheerfulway to the penitentiary to serve threeyears. Before leaving he had taken painsto sound again his forecast of what waswaiting Joe “down the river,” in case theydid not give him the “quick and painless.”He never had forgiven Joe hisunwillingness to gossip with him in jail.The fellow’s vindictiveness was evidentin the sneering delight that he took on hislast night in jail in calling Joe out of hissleep, or pretended sleep, to hear his

description of the terrors waiting a mancondemned to prison for life.

Now that he was gone, Joe felt that hiswords lived after him, like mold upon thewalls, or a chilling damp between thestones. The recollection of them could notbe denied his abnormally sharpenedsenses, nor the undoubted truth of theirterrifying picture shut out of hisimagination by any door of reasoning thathe had the strength to close. Condemnationto prison would mean the suspension ofall his young hopes and healthy desires; itwould bring him to the end of hisactivities in the world as suddenly asdeath. Considering ambition, love,happiness, men in prison were alreadydead. They lived only in their faculty forsuffering.

Would Morgan come to save him fromthat fate? That was his sole speculationupon a solution of his pressing trouble.Without Morgan, Joe did not consider anyother way.

Colonel Price had received lately acommission for a corn picture from a St.Louis hotel, upon which he was workingwithout pause. He had reached that stateof exalted certainty in relation to corn thathe never was obliged to put aside hiscolors and wait the charge of inspiration.His inspirational tide always was settingin when corn was the subject. Work withthe colonel in such case was a matter ofdaylight.

On account of the order, the colonel hadno time for Joe, for art with him,especially corn art, was above the

worries and concerns of all men. He didnot forget the prisoner in the white heat ofhis commission. For several days he had itin his mind to ask Alice to visit him, andcarry to him the assurance of thecontinuance of the family interest andregard. But it was an unconventional thingto request of a young lady; a week slippedpast before the colonel realized it whilehe temporized in his mind.

At last he approached it circuitouslyand with a great deal of diplomaticconcealment of his purpose, leaving ampleroom for retreat without unmasking hisintention, in case he should discernindications of unwillingness.

By that time the election was over andthe country regularly insured againstanarchy, devastation, and ruin for two

years longer. The prosecuting attorney andthe sheriff had been reelected; themachinery of the law was ready to turn atthe grist.

The colonel was pleased to see thatAlice seconded him in his admission thatthey had been treating Joe Newboltshamefully. Of course the sheriff waspartly to blame for that, having set himselfup with metropolitan importance, now thathe was secure in office. He had put asideWednesday as the one day of the week onwhich visitors, other than relatives orcounsel of prisoners, would be permittedto enter the jail.

It chanced to be a Wednesday morningwhen the colonel got around to it finally,and they agreed heartily and warmly thatsomebody ought to go and carry a little

gleam of cheer and encouragement to Joe.The colonel looked at his unfinishedpicture, then at the mellow light of theautumn day, so much like the soul of cornitself, and then at Alice. He lifted hiseyebrows and waved his hands in agesture of helplessness.

“Never mind,” said she; “you go aheadwith the picture; I’ll go alone.”

The colonel blessed her, and turned tohis picture with a great sigh of relief.Alice left him to prepare for her visit, aflutter of eagerness in her heart, a feelingof timid nervousness which wasunaccountable and strange.

She was not accustomed to trembling atthe thought of meeting young men. Usuallyshe went forward to the ordeal with asmile, which the victim would not have

gathered a great deal of pleasure from, inmost cases, if he had been able to read,for he would have seen her appraisementof him on her lips. There was none of thisamusing measurement of Joe, no soundingof his shallows with her quick perceptionlike a sunbeam finding the pebbles in thebottom of a brook. There was somethingin his presence which seemed like a coolwind on the forehead, palpable, yetprofound from the mystery of its source.

She had been surprised by the depth ofthis unpromising subject, to whom she hadturned at first out of pity for his mother.The latent beauties of his rugged mind, fullof the stately poetry of the old Hebrewchronicles, had begun to unfold to hersympathetic perception in the three visitsshe had made in her father’s company.

Each visit had brought some new wonderfrom that crude storehouse of his mind,where Joe had been hoarding quainttreasures all his lonely, companionlessyears.

And Joe, even in his confinement, feltthat he was free in a larger sense than heever had been before. He was shaking outhis wings and beginning to liveunderstandingly and understood. It wasbeyond him to believe it sometimes;beyond him always to grasp the reality ofAlice Price, and her friendship for one sonear the dust as he.

What was there about the poor folks’boy, bound out but yesterday to IsomChase, and still bound to his estate underthe terms of his articles? What was therein him to reach out and touch the

sympathies of this beautiful young woman,who came to him with the scent of violetsin her hair? Others had despised him forhis poverty, and fastened a name upon himwhich was in itself a reproach. And stillmisunderstanding, they had carried him offto prison, charged with a dark and hideouscrime. Now this light had come to him inhis despair, like the beam of that whitestar above the Judean plains. Like thatstar, she would stand far off to guide him,and exalt his soul by its strivings to attainher level. There their relations must cease.He might yearn his heart away in the gulfthat lay between them, and stretch out hisempty hands for evermore, never to feelits nearer warmth upon his breast. He wasthe poor folks’ boy.

There was a wan sun on the day she

came alone to the jail, a day so longremembered by Joe and held by him sodear. A solemn wind was roaming thetree-tops outside his cell window; thebranches stood bleak and bare against themottled sky.

Alice wore a dress of some soft graymaterial, which seemed to embrace her inwarm comfort, and reveal her in a newand sprightly loveliness. Her rippled hairwas free upon her temples, her ear peepedout from beneath it with a roguish tintupon it, as if it waited to be kissed, andblushed for its own temerity. A gay littlehighland bonnet rode the brown billows ofher abundant hair, saucy and bold as acorsair, with one bright little feather at itsprow. Perhaps it was no more than agoose quill, or a cock’s plume dipped in

dye, but to Joe it seemed as glorious as ifit had been plucked from the fairest wingin the gardens of paradise.

The marvel of it came over Joe again ashe stood close against the bars to greether. She, so rare and fine, so genteel andfair, caring enough for him and hisunpromising fate to put aside the joyousbusiness of her unhampered life and seekhim in that melancholy place. It seemed adream, yet she was there, her delicatedark brows lifted questioningly, as ifuncertain that he would approve herunconventional adventure, a smile in thedepths of her serene, frank eyes. Hercheeks were glowing from the sparks ofmorning, and her ungloved hand wasreaching out to meet him.

He clasped it, and welcomed her with

joy that he could not have simulated anymore than he could have hidden. Therewas a tremor in his voice; a hot sweep ofblood flamed in his face like a confessionof his secret soul.

“I never saw you look so tall,” said heslowly, measuring her with adoring eyes.

“Maybe it’s the dress,” said she,looking herself over with a littleexpressive sweep of the hands, as if to putall the blame on that innocent nun-graygown, if there was blame to be borne.

She wore a little bunch of mignonetteupon her breast, just at the point where theslashing of her bodice ended, and the graygave way to a wedge of virginal white, asif her sempstress had started to lay bareher heart. The flowers quivered as fromsome internal agitation, nestling their pale

gold spikes against their lovely bed.“I don’t know that it’s the dress,” said

he, “but you do look taller than usual, itseems to me.”

She laughed, as if she found humor inhis solemn repetition of such a trivialdiscovery.

“Well, I can’t help being tall,” she said.“How tall would you have a lady grow?How tall do you think one ought to be?”

“‘As high as my heart,’” said Joe,remembering Orlando’s words.

The color deepened in her cheeks; shecaught her breath with a little “Oh!”

She wondered what sprout of blue-blooded and true-blooded nobility inShelbyville there was capable of turning areply like that without straining for it more

than that pale cavalier with his wornclothing hanging loose upon his bonyframe. When she ventured to lift her eyesto his face, she found him grasping a barof the cell door with one hand, as if hewould tear it from its frame. His gaze wasfixed upon the high window, he did notturn. She felt that he was struggling withhimself that moment, but whether to driveto speech or to withhold it, she could nottell.

“I wish I could go out there and runabout five miles this morning,” he sighed.

She gave him sigh for sigh, feeling thatsomething was lost. He had not strivenwith himself merely to say that. But fromthere they went on to talk of his comingtrial, and to expose the mutual hope that nofurther excuse would be advanced for its

continuance. He seemed to be certain thatthe trial would see an end of his difficulty,and she trembled to contemplate any otheroutcome.

So they stood and talked, and her facewas glowing and her eyes were bright.

“Your cheeks are as red as bitter-sweet,” said he.

“There was frost last night,” shelaughed, “and the cool wind makes myface burn.”

“I know just how it feels,” said he,looking again toward the window withpathetic wistfulness, the hunger of oldlongings in his eyes.

“It will not be long now until you arefree,” she said in low voice of sympathy.

He was still looking at the brown

branches of the bare elm, now palelytouched with the cloud-filtered autumnsun.

“I know where there’s lots of it,” saidhe, as if to himself, “out in the hills. Itloves to ramble over scrub-oak in theopen places where there’s plenty of sun. Iused to pick armloads of it the last year Iwent to school and carry it to the teacher.She liked to decorate the room with it.”

He turned to her with apologeticappeal, as if to excuse himself for havingwandered away from her in his thoughts.

“I put it over the mantel,” she nodded;“it lasts all winter.”

“The wahoo’s red now, too,” said he.“Do you care for it?”

“It doesn’t last as long as bitter-sweet,”

said she.“Bitter-sweet,” said he reflectively,

looking down into the shadows whichhung to the flagstones of the floor. Then heraised his eyes to hers and surprised thembrimming with tears, for her heart wasaching for him in a reflection of his ownlonely pain.

“It is emblematic of life,” said he,reaching his hand out through the bars toher, as if to beg her not to grieve over theclouds of a day; “you know there are lotsof comparisons and verses and sayingsabout it in that relation. It seems to me thatI’ve always had more of the bitter than thesweet–but it will all come out right intime.”

She touched his hand.“Do you like mignonette?” she asked.

“I’ve brought you some.”“I love it!” said he with boyish

impetuosity. “I had a bed of it last–no, Imean the summer before last–before Iwas–before I went to work for Isom.”

She took the flowers from her bosomand placed them in his hand. The scent ofthem was in his nostrils, stirring memoriesof his old days of simple poverty, of daysin the free fields. Again he turned his facetoward the window, the little flowersclutched in his hand. His breast heaved asif he fought in the deep waters of his soulagainst some ignoble weakness.

She moved a little nearer, and reachedtimidly through the bars with thebreathless quiet of one who offers acaress to a sleeper. Her finger-tipstouched his arm.

“Joe,” said she, as if appealing in pityto him for permission to share his agony.

He lifted the flowers to his lips andkissed the stems where her hand hadclasped them; then bowed his head, hisstrong shoulders against the bars.

“Joe!” Her voice was a whisper in hisear, more than pity in it, so it seemed tohim in the revelation of that moment; morethan entreaty, more than consolation.

Her hand was on his arm; he turned toher, shaking the fallen locks of his wildhair back from his brow. Then her handwas in his, and there was a warm mist, asof summer clouds, before his eyes. Herface was before him, and near–so near.Not red like the bitter-sweet, but pale asthe winter dawn. Her eyes were wide, herchin was lifted, and he was straining her

to him with the jail door bars against hisbreast.

Love comes that way, and death; andthe blow of sorrow; and the wrench oflife’s last bitter pang. Only life is slow;tedious and laggard with its burdens andits gleams.

He remembered in a moment; thepressure of the bars against his breastrecalled him to his sad estate. He releasedher hand and fell back a step from her, asharp cry on his lips as if he had seen hercrushed and mangled just beyond hisreach.

“I didn’t mean to do that, Alice; I didn’tmean to do that!” said he, dropping to hisknees before her as if struck down by astunning blow. He bowed his head incontrite humiliation.

“I forgot where I was, Alice; I forgot!”There was no displeasure in her face as

she stood panting before the barred door,her hands to her heaving breast, her headthrown back. Her lips were parted; therewas a light of exaltation in her eyes, as ofone who has felt the benediction of a greatand lasting joy. She put her hand throughthe bars again, and touched his bowedhead.

“Don’t do that, Joe,” said she.The sheriff’s key sounded in the lock of

the corridor gate.“Time’s up,” he called.“All right; I’m coming,” Alice returned.Joe stood, weak and trembling. He felt

as if he had, in the heat of some greatpassion, rashly risked life, and more than

life; that he had only now dragged hisbattered body back to the narrow,precarious ledge from which he hadleaped, and that safety was not his.

“I must go now,” said she, soft and lowand in steady voice. “Good-bye.”

She gave him her hand, and he clung toit like a nestling fastening upon the lastbranch interposing between it anddestruction.

“I forgot where I was,” said he weakly,his shaken mind incapable ofcomprehending things as they were, hisabasement over the breach that he hadcommitted being so profound. Shewithdrew her hand. When it was gone outof his, he remembered how warm it waswith the tide of her young body, and howsoft for his own work-roughened fingers

to meet and enfold.“I must go now,” said she again. Her

feet sounded in the corridor as she ranaway. A little way along she stopped. Shewas beyond his sight, but her voicesounded near him when she called back“Good-bye!”

She had not gone in anger nordispleasure, thought he, getting hand of hisconfused senses after a while, standing asshe had left him, the flowers in his hand.Strangely exulting, strangely thrilling,mounting a moment like an eagle, plungingdown now like a stone, Joe walked hiscell.

What had he done, drawn on by thatwhich he had read in her eyes in thatpoignant moment! In jail, locked behind agrated door of steel, he had taken her hand

and drawn her to him until the shock of thebars had called back his manhood. He hadtaken advantage of her friendship andsympathy.

Prison was no place for love; a manlocked in jail charged with a crime had noright to think of it. It was base of him, andunworthy. Still–mounting again in a swift,delicious flight–it was sweet to knowwhat her eyes had told him, sweeter torest assured that she had not left him inscorn. Down again, a falling clod. Unlesshe had misinterpreted them in theignorance of his untutored heart. Yet, thatis a language that needs no lexicon, heknew.

Who is so simple, indeed, as to beunaware of that? How different thispassion from that which Ollie’s uncovered

bosom had stirred; how he burned withshame at the memory of that day!

Up and down he strode the morningthrough, his long, thin legs now spare inhis boot-tops, his wide, bony shoulderssharp through his coat. The strong lightfell on his gaunt face as he turned towardthe window; shadows magnified itshollows when he turned toward the door.Now that the panic of it had left him, thesweetness of it remained.

How soft her hand was, how heryielding body swayed in his arm! Howdelicious her breath was on his face; hownear her eyes, speaking to him, and herlips; how near her parted, warm, red lips!

He took up the Book, and turned withtrembling hands to a place that heremembered well. There was something

that he had read, not feeling, notunderstanding, words of which came backto him now. The Songs of Songs, Which isSolomon’s.

Ah, the Song of Songs! The music of itnow was written in his heart. It was notthe song in glorification and exaltation ofthe church that the translators hadcaptioned it; not a song full of earthlysymbols meant to represent spiritualpassions. Joe had read it, time and again,in that application, and it had fallenflavorless upon his understanding. No; itwas the song of a strong man to the womanwhom he loved.

And the music of it, old but ever new inits human appeal, now was written in hisheart.

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and

thy speech is comely. Thou art all fair, mylove; there is no spot in thee.... Until theday break, and the shadows flee away,turn, my beloved....

Ah, until the day break!In his rapt exaltation the boy’s face

beamed as he strode swiftly the length ofhis cell. It would not be long untildaybreak now. The judge wouldunderstand him, and would not press aman to tell what he had delicate reasonsfor concealing, when the concealmentcould bring harm to nobody, but boundlessgood to one weak creature who mustwither otherwise in the blaze of shame.

He remembered the strong face and thelong iron-gray hair of Judge Maxwell;only a little while ago Joe had given himsome apples which he had stopped to

admire as he drove past Isom’s orchard inhis sagging, mud-splashed, old buggy. Hewas a good man; the uprightness of his lifespoke from his face. Judge Maxwell was aman to understand.

Poor Ollie; poor weak, shrinking Ollie!Her frightened eyes glowed hot in hismemory of the day of the inquest, carryingto him their appeal. Poor, mistaken,unguided Ollie! He would protect her tothe last, as he had done at the beginning,and trust and hope that the judge, andAlice, and the colonel, and the wholeworld, would understand in due andproper time.

CHAPTER XIVDESERTED

John Owens, the surviving witness to IsomChase’s will, spent his dreary days at thepoorhouse whittling long chains ofinterlocking rings, and fantastic creaturessuch as the human eye never beheld innature, out of soft pine-wood. He hadtaken up that diversion shortly after thelast of his afflictions, blindness, fell uponhim and, as white pine was cheap, thesuperintendent of the institution indulgedhim without stint.

Uncle John, as he was called long yearsbefore the hard-riding world threw him,was a preacher back in the days of his

youth, middling manhood and prosperity.He had ridden the country in theCampbellite faith, bringing hundreds intothe fold, with a voice as big as a bull’s,and a long beard, which he wore buttonedunder his vest in winter. And now in hisspeechlessness, darkness, and silence, hestill preached in his way, carving out thebeast with seven heads and ten horns, andfemale figures of hideous mien, thesignification of which nobody rightlyknew.

Uncle John had a little slate upon whichhe wrote his wants, but nobody haddiscovered any way of communicatingwith him save by taking his hand andguiding it to the object for which he hadasked. For a long time he had written theone word “Paint” on his slate. That was

the beginning of his use of it, when oneword was all that he could get on a side ofit at a time. After his fingers had becomesensitive through his new art of whittlingand feeling, he improved his writing, untilhe made it plain that he wanted paint toadorn his carved figures, so they could besold.

It was the hope of the poor old soul thathe could whittle himself out of thepoorhouse, and live free and independentupon the grotesque productions of hisknife, if they would give him paint to makethem attractive, and thus get a start. He didnot know how fantastic and ridiculousthey were, having only his own touch toguide him to judgment of their merits.

Perhaps he was no less reasonable inthis belief than certain painters, musicians,

and writers, who place their own blindvalue upon the craft of their hands andbrains, and will not set them aside for anyjury that the world can impanel.

Uncle John never came to realize hishopes of freedom, any more than he evercame to realize the uselessness of paintfor his angels when he had no eyes forapplying it. He whittled on, in melancholydejection, ring upon ring in his endlesschains of rings, forging in bitter irony theemblems of bondage, when his old heartso longed to be free.

It was a bright day in the life of UncleJohn Owens, then, when Ollie’s lawyercalled at the poorhouse and placed underhis hands some slender slips of cardboardbearing raised letters, the A B C of hisage.

His bearded old face shone like awindow in which a light has been struckas his fluttering fingers ran over theletters. He fumbled excitedly for his slatewhich hung about his neck, and his handtrembled as he wrote:

“More–book–more.”It had been an experiment, the lawyer

having doubted whether Uncle John’suntrained fingers, dulled by age, couldpick out the letters, large as they were. Hehad nothing more to offer, therefore, andno way of answering the appeal. But thatnight an order for the New Testament inraised characters for the blind went outfrom Shelbyville.

Judge Little was making no progress inestablishing the will. Nobody had comeforward in answer to his advertisements

in the city papers, claiming for himself thedistinction of being Isom Chase’s son. Butthe judge gave Ollie to understand, inspite of his quiescence while he searchedfor the heir, that the courts must settle thequestion. If there were fees to be had outof that estate, Judge Little was the man toget them.

Meantime, in his cell in the county jail,Joe Newbolt was bearing the heaviestpenance of his life. Alice had not comeagain. Two visiting days had passed, andthere would be no more before the date ofthe trial, which was set for the followingMonday. But since that dun morning whenshe had given him the mignonette, and hehad drawn her unresisting body to thebarrier of his prison door, she had visitedhim no more.

Joe reproached himself for it. Heaccused himself of having offendedbeyond forgiveness. In the humiliationwhich settled upon him, he wasted likewater in the sun. The mignonette whichshe had given him withered, dried; itsperfume vanished, its blossoms turnedgray. She came no more. What did itmatter if they convicted him before thejudge, said he, now that Alice hadcondemned him in her heart. He lamentedthat he had blundered into such deepoffending. His untutored heart had seenonly the reflection of his own desire in hereyes that day. She did not care for him. Itwas only pity that he had distorted intolove.

He had inquired about her, timidly, ofthe sheriff, who had looked at him with a

slow wink, then formed his mouth into anegg-shaped aperture and held it so anexasperating while, as if he meant towhistle. The sheriff’s clownish behaviornettled Joe, for he was at a loss tounderstand what he meant.

“I thought maybe she’d sent over somebooks,” said Joe, blushing like ahollyhock.

“Books!” said the sheriff, with a grunt.“Yes, sir,” Joe answered, respectfully.“Huh, she never sent no books,” said

the sheriff, turning away.After a little he came back and stood

before Joe’s door, with his long legs farapart, studying the prisoner calculatively,as a farmer stands when he estimates theweight of a hog.

“Cree-mo-nee!” said he.He laughed then, much to Joe’s

confusion, and totally beyond hiscomprehension. The sheriff left him withthat. From the passage his laugh cameback.

The day was Friday; Joe plucked up alittle hope when he heard the sheriffconducting somebody to the corridor gate.It was Colonel Price, who had exercisedhis political influence over the sheriff andinduced him to set aside his newregulations for the day. The colonel madeapologies to Joe for what might seem hislack of interest in his welfare.

Joe inquired of him concerning Alice,with respectful dignity. She was well,said the colonel, and asked to beremembered. What else the colonel said

on that occasion Joe did not recall. Allthat he could think of was that Alice haddesired to be remembered.

What an ironical message to send him,thought Joe. If she only had come herself,and given him the assurance with her eyesthat there was no stored censure, noburning reproach; if she had come, andquieted the doubt, the uncertainty, of hisself-tortured soul. His case had becomesecondary beside Alice. The coloneltalked of it, but Joe wondered if themignonette in her garden was dead. Thecolonel shook his head gravely when hewent away from the jail that day. It wasplain that the boy was suffering with thatload on his mind and the uncertainty of theoutcome pressing upon him. He mentionedit to Alice.

“I think we’d better try to get himanother lawyer,” said the colonel.“Hammer never will be equal to that job.It will be more the size of Judge Burns, orone of the old heads. That boy’s in apickle, Alice, and a mighty tight one, atthat.”

“But he’s innocent–you don’t doubtthat?” said she.

“Not for a minute,” the coloneldeclared. “I guess I should have beenlooking after him closer, but that pictureintervened between us. He’s wearingaway to a shadow, chafing and piningthere in jail, poor chap.”

“Do you think he’ll consent to youremploying another lawyer for him?” sheasked, searching his face wistfully.

“I don’t know; he’s so set in the notion

of loyalty to Hammer–just as if anybodycould hurt Hammer’s feelings! If the boywill consent to it, I’ll hire Judge Burns atmy own expense.”

“I don’t suppose he will,” sighed she.“No, I reckon not, his notions are so

high-flown,” the colonel admitted, withevident pride in the lofty bearing of thewidow’s son.

“He’s longing for a run over the hills,”said she. “He told me he was.”

“A year of it in there would kill him,”the colonel said. “We must get him alawyer who can disentangle him. I neversaw anybody go down like that boy hasgone down in the last month. It’s liketaking a wild Indian out of the woods andputting him in a cage.”

The colonel put aside the corn picturefor the day, and went out to confer withJudge Burns, a local lawyer who hadgained a wide reputation in the defense ofcriminal cases. He was a doubly troubledman when he returned home that evening,for Joe had been firm in his refusal eitherto dismiss Hammer or admit another to hisdefense. In the library he had found Alice,downcast and gloomy, on the margin oftears.

“Why, honey, you mustn’t mope aroundthis way,” he remonstrated gently. “Whatis it–what’s gone wrong with my littlemanager?”

She raised up from huddling her headagainst her arms on the table, pushed herfallen hair back from her eyes and gavehim a wan smile.

“I just felt so lonely and depressedsomehow,” said she, placing her hand onhis where it lay on the table. “Never mindme, for I’ll be all right. What did he say?”

“Judge Burns?”“Joe.”The colonel drew a chair near and sat

down, flinging out his hand with impatientgesture.

“I can’t do anything with him,” said he.“He says one lawyer will do as well asanother, and Hammer’s doing all that canbe done. ‘They’ll believe me or they’ll notbelieve me, colonel, and that’s all there isto it,’ says he, ‘and the best lawyer in theworld can’t change that.’ And I don’tknow but he’s right, too,” the colonelsighed. “He’s got to come out with thatstory, every word of it, or there’ll never

be a jury picked in the whole State ofMissouri that’ll take any stock in histestimony.”

“It will be a terrible thing for hismother if they don’t believe him,” saidshe.

“We’ll do all that he’ll allow us to dofor him, we can’t do any more. It’s agloomy outlook, a gloomy case allthrough. It was a bad piece of businesswhen that mountain woman bound him outto old Isom Chase, to take his kicks andcurses and live on starvation rations. He’sthe last boy in the world that you’dconceive of being bound out; he don’t fitthe case at all.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said she, reflectively.“But don’t let the melancholy thing

settle on you and disturb you, child. He’ll

get out of it–or he’ll not–one way or theother, I reckon. It isn’t a thing for you totake to heart and worry over. I nevershould have taken you to that gloomy oldjail to see him, at all.”

“I can’t forget him there–I’ll always seehim there!” she shuddered. “He’s abovethem all–they’ll never understand him,never in this world!”

She got up, her hair hanging upon hershoulders, and left him abruptly, as if shehad discovered something that lay in herheart. Colonel Price sat looking after her,his back very straight, his hand upon hisknee.

“Well!” said he. Then, after a longruminative spell: “Well!”

That same hour Hammer was laboringwith his client in the jail, as he had

labored fruitlessly before, in an endeavorto induce him to impart to him the thingthat he had concealed at the coroner’sinquest into Isom Chase’s death. Hammerassured him that it would not pass beyondhim in case that it had no value inestablishing his innocence.

“Mr. Hammer, sir,” said Joe, withunbending dignity and firmness, “if theinformation you ask of me was mine togive, freely and honorably, I’d give it.You can see that. Maybe something willturn up between now and Monday thatwill make a change, but if not, you’ll haveto do the best you can for me the way itstands. Maybe I oughtn’t expect you to gointo the court and defend me, seeing that Ican’t help you any more than I’m doing. Ifyou feel that you’d better drop out of the

case, you’re free to do it, without any hardfeelings on my part, sir.”

Hammer had no intention of droppingthe case, hopeless as he felt the defense tobe. Even defeat would be glorious, andloss profitable, for his connection with thedefense would sound his name from oneend of the state to the other.

“I wouldn’t desert you in the hour ofyour need, Joe, for anything they couldname,” said Hammer, with significantsuggestion.

His manner, more than his words,carried the impression that they had namedsums, recognizing in him an insuperablebarrier to the state’s case, but that he hadput his tempters aside with high-bornscorn.

“Thank you,” said Joe.

“But if Missis Chase was mixed up in itany way, I want you to tell me, Joe,” hepressed.

Joe said nothing. He looked as stiff andhard as one of the iron hitching-posts infront of the court-house, thought Hammer,the side of his face turned to the lawyer,who measured it with quick eyes.

“Was she, Joe?” whispered Hammer,leaning forward, his face close to the bars.

“The coroner asked me that,” repliedJoe, harshly.

This unyielding quality of his client wasbaffling to Hammer, who was of theopinion that a good fatherly kick mightbreak the crust of his reserve. Hammerhad guessed the answer according to hisown thick reasoning, and not very pellucidmorals.

“Well, if you take the stand, Joe, they’llmake you tell it then,” Hammer warnedhim. “You’d better tell me in advance, so Ican advise you how much to say.”

“I’ll have to get on somehow withoutyour advice, thank you sir, Mr. Hammer,when it comes to how much to say,” saidJoe.

“There’s not many lawyers–and I’ll tellyou that right now in a perfectly plain andfriendly way–that’d go ahead with yourcase under the conditions,” said Hammer.“But as I told you, I’ll stick to you and seeyou through. I wash my hands of anyblame for the case, Joe, if it don’t turn outexactly the way you expect.”

Joe saw him leave without regret, forHammer’s insistence seemed to himinexcusably vulgar. All men could not be

like him, reflected Joe, his hope leapingforward to Judge Maxwell, whom he mustsoon confront.

Joe tossed the night through with hislonging for Alice, which gnawed him likehunger and would not yield to sleep, for inhis dreams his heart went out after her; heheard her voice caressing his name. Hewoke with the feeling that he must put thethought of Alice away from him, andframe in his mind what he should saywhen it came his turn to stand beforeJudge Maxwell and tell his story. If bysome hinted thing, some shade of speech,some qualification which a gentlemanwould grasp and understand, he mightconvey his reason to the judge, he felt thathe must come clear.

He pondered it a long time, and the face

of the judge rose before him, and the eyeswere brown and the hair in soft waveletsabove a white forehead, and Alice stoodin judgment over him. So it always ended;it was before Alice that he must plead andjustify himself. She was his judge, hisjury, and his world.

It was mid-afternoon when Mrs.Newbolt arrived for her last visit beforethe trial. She came down to his door in hersomber dress, tall, bony and severe,thinner of face herself than she had beenbefore, her eyes bright with the affectionfor her boy which her tongue never putinto words. Her shoes were muddy, andthe hem of her skirt draggled, for, high asshe had held it in her heavy tramp, it hadbecome splashed by the pools in the softhighway.

“Mother, you shouldn’t have cometoday over the bad roads,” said Joe withaffectionate reproof.

“Lands, what’s a little mud!” said she,putting down a small bundle which shebore. “Well, it’ll be froze up bytomorrow, I reckon, it’s turnin’ sharp andcold.”

She looked at Joe anxiously, everyshadow in his worn face carving itscounterpart in her heart. There was nosmile of gladness on her lips, for smileshad been so long apart from her life thatthe nerves which commanded them hadgrown stiff and hard.

“Yes,” said Joe, taking up her lastwords, “winter will be here in a littlewhile now. I’ll be out then, Mother, to layin wood for you. It won’t be long now.”

“Lord bless you, son!” said she, thewords catching in her throat, tears risingto her eyes and standing so heavy that shemust wipe them away.

“It will all be settled next week,” Joetold her confidently.

“I hope they won’t put it off no more,”said she wearily.

“No; Hammer says they’re sure to goahead this time.”

“Ollie drove over yesterday eveningand brought your things from Isom’s,” saidshe, lifting the bundle from the floor,forcing it to him between the bars. “Ibrought you a couple of clean shirts, for Iknew you’d want one for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mother, I’m glad you broughtthem,” said Joe.

“Ollie, she said she never would makeyou put in the rest of your time there if shehad anything to say about it. But she said ifJudge Little got them letters ofadministration he was after she expectedhe’d try to hold us to it, from what hesaid.”

“No matter, Mother.”“And Ollie said if she ever did come

into Isom’s property she’d make us a deedto our place.”

Mrs. Newbolt’s face bore a little gleamof hope when she told him this. Joe lookedat her kindly.

“She could afford to, Mother,” said he,“it was paid for in interest on that loan toIsom.”

“But Isom, he never would ’a’ give in

to that,” said she. “Your pap he paidtwelve per cent interest on that loan forsixteen years.”

“I figured it all up, Mother,” said he.There was nothing for her to sit on in

the corridor; she stood holding to the barsto take some of the weight from her tiredfeet.

“I don’t want to hurry you off, Mother,”said Joe, “but I hate to see you standingthere all tired out. If the sheriff was agentleman he’d fetch you a chair. I don’tsuppose there’d be any use in asking him.”

“Never mind, Joe, it takes more than alittle walk like that to play me out.”

“You’d better stop in at Colonel Price’sand rest a while before you start back,” hesuggested.

“Maybe I will,” said she.She plunged her hand into the black

draw-string bag which she carried on herarm, rummaging among its contents.

“That little rambo tree you planted acouple of years ago had two apples on it,”she told him, “but I never noticed ’em allsummer, the leaves was so thick and itwas such a little feller, anyhow.”

“It is a little one to begin bearing,” saidJoe, with a boy’s interest in a thing that hehas done with his own hand turning out tobe something.

“Yes; and I aimed to leave them on thetree till you could see them, but the hardwind yesterday shook ’em off. Here theyare, I’ve fetched ’em to you, son.”

Joe took the apples, the recollection of

the high hopes which he had centeredaround that little apple-tree when heplanted it coming back to him like ascented wind at dawn. He had planned tomake that tree the nucleus of an orchard,which was to grow and spread until itcovered the old home place, the fieldsadjoining, and lifted the curse of povertyfrom the Newbolt name. It had been aboyish plan which his bondage to IsomChase had set back.

He had not given it up for a day whilehe labored in Chase’s fields. When hebecame his own man he always intendedto take it up and put it through. Now, therein his hand, was the first fruit of his bigintention, and in that moment Joereviewed his old pleasant dream.

He saw again as he had pictured it

before, to the relief of many a long, hotday in Isom’s fields, his thousand treesupon the hills, the laden wagons rolling tothe station with his barrels of fruit, someof it to go to far lands across the sea. Hesaw again the stately house with its whitecolumns and deep porticoes, in the hallsof which his fancy had reveled many ahappy hour, and he saw–the bars of hisstone cell and his mother’s work-hardenedhands clasping them, while she looked athim with the pain of her sad heartspeaking from her eyes. A heavy tearrolled down his hollow cheek and fellupon the apples in his hand.

For the pain of prison he had not wept,nor for its shame. The vexingcircumstance of being misunderstood, thedread threat of the future had not claimed

a tear. But for a dream which had sprunglike a sweet flower in his young heart andhad passed away like a mist, he wept.

His mother knew nothing about thatblasted dream; the gloom of his cellconcealed his tears. He rubbed the fruitalong his coat sleeve, as if to make itshine, as a fruiterer polishes the apples inhis stall.

“All right, Mother, I’m glad you broughtthem,” he said, although there was nogladness in his voice.

“I planned to fetch you in some friedchicken today, too,” said she, “but thepesky rooster I had under the tub got awaywhen I went to take him out. If you’d likesome, Joe, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“No, no; don’t you tramp over heretomorrow, Mother,” he admonished, “and

don’t bother about the chicken. I don’tseem to have any appetite any more. Butyou wait till I’m out of here a day or two;then you’ll see me eat.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll be goin’ onback, Joe; and bright and early Mondaymorning I’ll be on hand at the court.Maybe we’ll be able to go home togetherthat evenin’, son.”

“Hammer says it will take two or threedays,” Joe told her, “but I don’t see whatthey can do to make it string out that long.I could tell them all about it in ten minutes.So we mustn’t put our hopes too high onMonday, Mother.”

“I’ll beseech the Lord all daytomorrow, son, to open their ears that theymay hear,” said she solemnly. “And whenthe time comes to speak tell it all, Joe, tell

it all!”“Yes, Mother, when the time comes,”

said he gently.“Tell ’em all Isom said to you, son,”

she charged.“Don’t you worry over that now,

Mother.”She felt that her son drew away from

her, in his haughty manner of self-sufficiency, as he spoke. She sighed,shaking her head sadly. “Well, I’ll berackin’ off home,” she said.

“If you stop at the colonel’s to rest awhile, Mother–and I wish you would, foryou’re all tired out–you might hand thisbook back to Miss Price. She loaned it tome. Tell her I read it long ago, and I’dhave sent it back before now, only I

thought she might come after it herselfsome time.”

His mother turned to him, a curiousexpression in her face.

“Don’t she come any more, Joe?”“She’s been busy with other things, I

guess,” said he.“Maybe,” she allowed, with a feeling

of resentment against the book on accountof its cold, unfriendly owner.

She had almost reached the corridorgate when Joe called after her.

“No, don’t tell her that,” he requested.“Don’t tell her anything. Just hand it back,please, Mother.”

“Whatever you say, Joe.”Joe heard the steel gate close after her

and the sheriff’s voice loud above his

mother’s as they went toward the door.Loyal as he was to his mother, the

thought of her went out with her, and inher place stood the slender figure of youth,her lips “like a thread of scarlet.” One daymore to wait for the event of hisjustification and vindication, or at leastthe beginning of it, thought Joe.

Ah, if Alice only would come to lightenthe interval!

CHAPTER XVTHE STATE VS.NEWBOLT

The court-house at Shelbyville was a redbrick structure with long windows. Fromthe joints of its walls the mortar wasfalling. It lay all around the building in agirdle of gray, like an encircling ant-hill,upon the green lawn. Splendid sugar-maples grew all about the square, in thecenter of which the court-house stood, andclose around the building.

In a corner of the plaza, beneath thelargest and oldest of these spreading trees,stood a rotting block of wood, a section ofa giant tree-trunk, around which centeredmany of the traditions of the place. It was

the block upon which negro slaves hadbeen auctioned in the fine old days beforethe war.

There was a bench beside the approachto the main door, made from one of thelogs of the original court-house, built inthat square more than sixty years beforethe day that Joe Newbolt stood to answerfor the murder of Isom Chase. The oldmen of the place sat there in the summerdays, whittling and chewing tobacco andliving over again the stirring incidents oftheir picturesque past. Their mightyinitials were cut in the tough wood of thebench, to endure long after them and recallmemories of the hands which carved themso strong and deep.

Within the court-house itself all wasvery much like it had had been at the

beginning. The court-room was furnishedwith benches, the judge sat behind asolemn walnut desk. The woodwork of theroom was thick with many layers of paint,the last one of them grim and blisterednow, scratched by stout finger-nails andprying knife-blades. The stairway leadingfrom the first floor ascended in a broadsweep, with a turn half-way to the top.

The wall along this stairway wasbattered and broken, as if the heels ofreluctant persons, dragged hither forjustice to be pronounced upon them, hadkicked it in protest as they passed. It wasas solemn and gloomy a stairway as everwas seen in a temple of the law. Many hadgone up it in their generation in hope, todescend it in despair. Its treads wereworn to splinters; its balustrade was

hacked by the knives of generations ofloiterers. There was no window in thewall giving upon it; darkness hung over itsfirst landing on the brightest day. The justand the unjust alike were shrouded in itsgloomy penumbra as they passed. It wasthe solemn warder at the gate, whichseemed to cast a taint over all who came,and fasten a cloud upon them which theymust stand in the white light of justice topurge away.

When the civil war began, the flag ofthe Union was taken down from the cupolaof the court-house. In all the years that hadpassed since its close, the flag never hadbeen hoisted to its place of honor again.That event was not to take place, indeed,until twenty years or more after the deathof Isom Chase, when the third court-house

was built, and the old generation hadpassed away mainly, and those whoremained of it had forgotten. But thatincident is an incursion into matters whichdo not concern this tale.

Monday morning came on dull andcloudy. Shelbyville itself was scarcelyastir, its breakfast fires no more thankindled, when the wagons of farmers andthe straggling troops of horsemen fromfar-lying districts began to come in andseek hitching-room around the court-housesquare. It looked very early in the day asif there was going to be an unusual crowdfor the unusual event of a trial for murder.

Isom Chase had been widely known.His unsavory reputation had spread widerthan the sound of the best deeds of theworthiest man in the county. It was not so

much on account of the notoriety of the oldman, which had not died with him, as themystery in the manner of his death, thatpeople were anxious to attend the trial.

It was not known whether Joe Newboltwas to take the witness-stand in his ownbehalf. It rested with him and his lawyerto settle that; under the law he could notbe forced to testify. The transcript of histestimony at the inquest was ready at theprosecutor’s hand. Joe would beconfronted with that, and, if there was aspark of spunk in him, people said, hewould rise up and stand by it. And then,once Sam Lucas got him in the witness-chair, it would be all day with hisevasions and concealments.

Both sides had made elaboratepreparations for the trial. The state had

summoned forty witnesses; Hammer’s listwas half as long. It was a question in thepublic speculation what either sideexpected to prove or disprove with thistrain of people. Certainly, Hammerexpected to prove very little. His chiefaim was to consume as much time beforethe jury as possible, and disport himself inthe public eye as long as he could drag outan excuse. His witnesses were all fromamong the old settlers in the Newboltneighborhood over in Sni, who had thefamily record from the date of theKentucky hegira. They were summonedfor the purpose of sustaining and addingcolor to the picture which Hammerintended to draw of his client’s well-known honesty and clean past.

Fully an hour before Judge Maxwell

arrived to open court, the benches downtoward the front were full. This vantageground had been preempted mainly by theold men whose hearing was growing dim.They sat there with their old hands, asbrown as blackberry roots, clasped overtheir sticks and umbrellas, their peakedold chins up, their eyes alert. Here andthere among them sat an ancient dame,shawled and kerchiefed, for the day waschill; and from them all there rose thescent of dry tobacco-leaves, and out oftheir midst there sounded the rustling ofpaper-bags and the cracking of peanut-shells.

“Gosh m’ granny!” said Captain BillTaylor, deputy sheriff, as he stood amoment after placing a pitcher of waterand a glass on the bench, ready for Judge

Maxwell’s hand. “They’re here fromNecessity to Tribulation!”

Of course the captain was stretching theterritory represented by that gatheringsomewhat, for those two historic postoffices lay farther away from Shelbyvillethan the average inhabitant of that countryever journeyed in his life. But there wasno denying that they had come fromsurprising distances.

There was Uncle Posen Spratt, fromLittle Sugar Creek, with his steer’s-hornear trumpet; and there were Nick Proctorand his wife, July, from the hills beyondDestruction, seventeen miles over a roadthat pitched from end to end when it didn’tslant from side to side, and took a shag-barked, sharp-shinned, cross-eyed wind-splitter to travel. There sat old Bev

Munday, from Blue Cut, who hadn’t beenthat far away from home since JesseJames got after him, with his old brownhat on his head; and it was two to one inthe opinion of everybody that he’d keep itthere till the sheriff ordered him to lift itoff. Hiram Lee, from Sni-a-bar Townshipwas over there in the corner where hecould slant up and spit out of the window,and there was California Colboth, as bigaround the waist as a cow, right behindhim. She had came over in her dish-wheeled buggy from Green Valley, andshe was staying with her married son, whoworked on the railroad and lived in thatlittle pink-and-blue house behind thewater-tank.

Oh, you could stand there–said CaptainTaylor–and name all the old settlers for

twenty-seven mile in a ring! But thecaptain hadn’t the time, even if he wastaken with the inclination, for thetownspeople began to come, and it washis duty to stand at the door and shut offthe stream when all the benches were full.

That was Judge Maxwell’s order;nobody was to be allowed to stand aroundthe walls or in the aisles and jig andshuffle and kick up a disturbance justwhen the lawyers or witnesses might besaying something that the captain would bevery anxious to hear. The captain indorsedthe judge’s mandate, and sustained hisjudgment with internal warmth.

General Bryant and Colonel MossPunton came early, and sat opposite eachother in the middle of the aisle, each onthe end of a bench, where they could look

across and exchange opinions, yet escapebeing crowded by the mongrel stockwhich was sure to come pouring in soon.A good many unnoted sons ofdistinguished fathers arrived in pairs andtroops, with perfumery on their necktiesand chewing-gum in their teeth; and theirsisters, for the greater part as lovely asthey were knotty, warty, pimply, andweak-shanked, came after them inchurchlike decorum and settled down onthe benches like so many light-wingedbirds. But not without a great manyquestioning glances and shy explorationsaround them, not certain that this thing wasproper and admissible, it being such amixed and dry-tobacco atmosphere.Seeing mothers here, grandfathers there,uncles and aunts, cousins and neighbors

everywhere, they settled down, assured, toenjoy the day.

It was a delightfully horrid thing to betried for murder, they said, even thoughone was obscure and nobody, a boundservant in the fields of the man whom hehad slain. Especially if one came offclear.

Then Hammer arrived with three law-books under his arm. He was all sleek andshining, perfumed to the last possibledrop. His alpaca coat had been replacedby a longer one of broadcloth, his blacknecktie surely was as dignified andsomberly learned of droop as JudgeBurns’, or Judge Little’s, or AttorneyPickell’s, who got Perry Norris off forstealing old man Purvis’ cow.

Mrs. Newbolt was there already,

awaiting him at the railing which dividedthe lawyers from the lawed, lawing, and,in some cases, outlawed. She was sounobtrusive in her rusty black dress,which looked as if it were made of storm-streaked umbrellas, that nobody hadnoticed her.

Now, when they saw her stand andshake hands with Hammer, and sawHammer obsequiously but conspicuouslyconduct her to a chair within the sacredprecincts of the bar, there werewhisperings and straightenings of backs,and a stirring of feet with that concreteaction which belongs peculiarly to awaiting, expectant crowd, but isimpossible to segregate or individuallydefine.

Judge Maxwell opened the door of his

chamber, which had stood tall and darkand solemnly closed all morning just alittle way behind the bench, and took hisplace. At the same moment the sheriff,doubtless timing himself to the smooth-working order, came in from the witness-room, opening from the court-room at thejudge’s right hand, with the prisoner.

Joe hesitated a little as the sheriffclosed the door behind them, his hand onthe prisoner’s shoulder, as if uncertain ofwhat was next required of him. The sheriffpushed him forward with commandinggesture toward the table at which Hammerstood, and Joe proceeded to cross theroom in the fire of a thousand eyes.

It seemed to him that the sheriff mighthave made the entrance less spectacular,that he could have brought him sooner, or

another way. That was like leading himacross a stage, with the audience all inplace, waiting the event. But Joe strodealong ahead of the sheriff with his headup, his long, shaggy hair smoothed intosome semblance of order, his sparegarments short and outgrown upon hisbony frame. His arms were ignominiouslybound in the sheriff’s handcuffs, linkedtogether by half a foot of dangling chain.

That stirring sigh of mingled whispersand deep-drawn breaths ran over the roomagain; here and there someone half rosefor a better look. The dim-eyed old menleaned forward to see what was comingnext; Uncle Posen Spratt put up hissteer’s-horn trumpet as if to blow the blastof judgment out of his ear.

Joe sat in the chair which Hammer

indicated; the sheriff released one handfrom the manacles and locked the other tothe arm of the chair. Then Captain Taylorclosed the door, himself on the outside ofit, and walked down to the front steps ofthe court-house with slow and statelytread. There he lifted his right hand, as ifto command the attention of the world, andpronounced in loud voice this formula:

“Oy’s, oy’s, oy’s! The hon’r’bl’ circuitcourt of the humteenth judicial de-strict isnow in session, pursu’nt t’ ’j’urnm’nt!”

Captain Taylor turned about as the lastword went echoing against the FirstNational Bank, and walked slowly up thestairs. He opened the court-room door andclosed it; he placed his back against it,and folded his arms upon his breast, hiseyes fixed upon a stain on the wall.

Judge Maxwell took up some papersfrom the desk, and spread one of thembefore him.

“In the matter of Case No. 79, State vs.Newbolt. Gentlemen, are you ready fortrial?”

The judge spoke in low andconfidential voice, meant for the attorneysat the bar only. It scarcely carried to theback of the room, filled with the sound-killing vapors from five hundred mouths,and many of the old men in the front seatsfailed to catch it, even though they cuppedtheir hands behind their ears.

Sam Lucas, prosecuting attorney, rose.Slight and pale, with a thin chest and a

stoop forward, he was distinguished bythe sharp eyes beside his flat-bridgednose, so flattened out, it seemed, by some

old blow, that they could almostcommunicate with each other across it.His light, loose hair was very long; whenhe warmed up in speaking he shook it untilit tumbled about his eyes. Then it was hishabit to sweep it back with the palm of hishand in a long, swinging movement of thearm. It was a most expressive gesture; itseemed as if by it he rowed himself backinto the placid waters of reasoning. Now,as he stood before Judge Maxwell, heswept his palm over his forelock, althoughit lay snug and unruffled in its place.

“Your honor, the state is ready,” saidhe, and remained standing.

Hammer pushed his books along thetable, shuffled his papers, and roseponderously. He thrust his right hand intothe bosom of his coat and leaned slightly

against the left in an attitude of scholarlypreparedness.

“Your honor, the defense is ready,” heannounced.

CHAPTER XVI“SHE COMETH NOT,” HE

SAID

Joe, his face as white as some plant thathas sprung in a dungeon, bent his headtoward his mother, and placed his freehand on hers where it lay on the arm of herchair.

“It will soon be over with now,Mother,” he encouraged, with the hope inhis heart that it would, indeed, be so.

With an underling in his place at thedoor, Captain Taylor advanced to takecharge of the marshaling of the jury panel.There ensued a great bustling andtramping as the clerk called off the names

of those drawn.While this was proceeding, Joe cast his

eyes about the room, animated by a doublehope: that Alice would be there to hearhim tell his story; that Morgan had comeand was in waiting to supply the factswhich honor sealed upon his own tongue.He could see only the first few rows ofbenches with the certainty of individualidentification; they were filled withstrangers. Beyond them it wasconglomerate, that fused and merged thingwhich seemed a thousand faces, yet one;that blended and commingled mass whichwe call the public. Out of the mass JoeNewbolt could not sift the lean, shrewdface of Curtis Morgan, nor glean from itthe brown hair of Alice Price.

The discovery that Alice was not there

smote him with a feeling of suddenhopelessness and abandonment; thereproaches which he had kindled againsthimself in his solitary days in jail rose upin redoubled torture. He blamed therashness of an unreasoning moment inwhich he had forgotten time andcircumstance. Her interest was gone fromhi m now, where, if he had waited forvindication, he might have won her heart.

But it was a dream, at the best, heconfessed, turning away from his hungrysearch of the crowd, his head droopingforward in dejection. What did it matterfor the world’s final exculpation, if Alicewere not there to hear?

His mother nodded to somebody, andtouched his hand. Ollie it was, whom shegreeted. She was seated near at hand,

beside a fat woman with a red and greasyface, whose air of protection and largeinterest proclaimed her a relative. Joethought that she filled pretty well the billthat Ollie had made out of her mother, onthat day when she had scorned her forhaving urged her into marriage with Isom.

Ollie was very white in her blackmourning dress, and thinner of featuresthan when he had seen her last. Shesmiled, and nodded to him, with an air oftimid questioning, as if doubtful whetherhe had expected it, and uncertain how itwould be received. Joe bowed his head,respectfully.

What a wayside flower she seemed,thought he; how common beside Alice!Yet, she had been bright and refreshing inthe dusty way where he had found her. He

wondered why she was not within the railalso, near Hammer, if she was for him; ornear the prosecutor, if she was on theother side.

He was not alone in this speculation.Many others wondered over that pointalso. It was the public expectation that shenaturally would assist the state in thepunishment of her husband’s slayer; butSam Lucas was not paying the slightestattention to her, and it was not knownwhether he even had summoned her as awitness.

And now Captain Taylor began tocreate a fresh commotion by clearing thespectators from the first row of benches tomake seats for the jury panel. JudgeMaxwell was waiting the restoration oforder, leaning back in his chair. Joe

scanned his face.Judge Maxwell was tall and large of

frame, from which the study andabstemiousness of his life had worn allsuperfluous flesh. His face, cleanlyshaved, was expressive of the scholarlyattainments which made his decisions anational standard. The judge’s eyes werebushed over with great, gray brows, theone forbidding cast in his countenance;they looked out upon those who came forjudgment before him through a pair ofspring-clamp spectacles which seemed toride precariously upon his large, bonynose. The glasses were tied to a slenderblack braid, which he wore looped abouthis neck.

His hair was long, iron-gray, and thick;he wore it brushed straight back from his

brow, without a parting or a break. It layin place so smoothly and persistentlythrough all the labor of his long days, thatstrangers were sometimes misled into thebelief that it was not his own. Thispeculiar fashion of dressing his hair, takenwith the length and leanness of his jaw,gave the judge a cast of aquilinesevereness which his gray eyes beliedwhen they beamed over the tops of hisglasses at floundering young counsel ortimid witness.

Yet they could shoot darts of fire, asmany a rash lawyer who had fallen undertheir censure could bear witness. At suchmoments the judge had a peculiar habit ofdrawing up his long back and seemingly todistend himself with all the dignity whichhis cumulative years and honors had

endured, and of bowing his neck to makethe focus of his eyes more direct as hepeered above his rimless glasses. He didnot find it necessary to reprimand anattorney often, never more than once, butthese occasions never were forgotten. Inhis twenty-five years’ service on thebench, he never had been reversed.

Joe felt a revival of hope again underthe influence of these preparations for thetrial. Perhaps Alice was there, somewhereamong the people back in the room, hethought. And the colonel, also, and maybeMorgan. Who could tell? There was nouse in abandoning hope when he was justwhere he could see a little daylight.

Joe sat up again, and lifted his headwith new confidence. His mother satbeside him, watching everything with a

sharpness which seemed especially benton seeing that Joe was given all his rights,and that nothing was omitted nor slightedthat might count in his favor.

She watched Hammer, and CaptainTaylor; she measured Sam Lucas, theprosecutor, and she weighed the judge.When Hammer did something that pleasedher, she nodded; when the prosecutorinterposed, or seemed to be blocking theprogress of the case, she shook her head insevere censure.

And now Joe came in for his first tasteof the musty and ancient savor of the law.He had hoped that morning to walk awayfree at evening, or at least to have met theworst that was to come, chancing it thatMorgan failed to appear and give him ahand. But he saw the hours waste away

with the most exasperating fiddling,fussing and scratching over unprofitablestraw.

What Hammer desired in a juryman, theprosecuting attorney was hotly against,and what pleased the state’s attorneyseemed to give Hammer a spasmodicchill. Instead of selecting twelveintelligent men, the most intelligent of thesixty empaneled, both Hammer and theprosecutor seemed determined to choosethe most dense.

That day’s sweating labor resulted inthe selection of four jurymen. Hammerseemed cheered. He said he had expectedto exhaust the panel and get no more thantwo, at the best. Now it seemed as if theymight secure the full complement withoutdrawing another panel, and that would

save them at least four days. That musthave been an exceedingly lucky haul ofempty heads, indeed.

Joe could not see any reason forelation. The prospect of freedom–or theworst–had withdrawn so far that therewas not even a pin-point of daylight in thegloom. Alice had not shown her face. Ifshe had come at all, she had withheldherself from his hungry eyes. His heartwas as bleak that night as the mind of thedensest juryman agreed upon betweenHammer and the attorney for the state.

Next day, to the surprise of everybody,the jury was completed. And then therefollowed, on the succeeding morning, arecital by the prosecuting attorney of whathe proposed and expected to prove insubstantiation of the charge that Joe

Newbolt had shot and killed Isom Chase;and Hammer’s no shorter statement ofwhat he was prepared to show to thecontrary.

Owing to the unprecedented interest,and the large number of people who haddriven in from the country, Judge Maxwellunbent from his hard conditions on thatday. He instructed Captain Taylor to admitspectators to standing-room along thewalls, but to keep the aisles between thebenches clear.

This concession provided for at least ahundred more onlookers and listeners,who stood forgetful of any ache in theirshanks throughout the long and draggingproceedings well satisfied, believing thatthe coming sensations would repay themfor any pangs of inconvenience they might

suffer.It was on the afternoon of the third day

of the trial that Sol Greening, first witnessfor the state, was called.

Sol retailed again, in his gossipy way,and with immense enjoyment of hisimportance, the story of the tragedy as hehad related it at the inquest. Sam Lucasgave him all the rope he wanted, even ledhim into greater excursions than Sol hadplanned. Round-about excursions, to besure, and inconsequential in effect, butthey all led back to the tragic picture ofJoe Newbolt standing beside the deadbody of Isom Chase, his hat in his hand, asif he had been interrupted on the point ofescape.

Sol seemed a wonderfully acute manfor the recollection of details, but there

was one thing that had escaped hismemory. He said he did not rememberwhether, when he knocked on the kitchendoor, anybody told him to come in or not.He was of the opinion, to the best of hisknowledge and belief–the words beingsupplied by the prosecutor–that he justknocked, and stood there blowing asecond or two, like a horse that had beenput to a hard run, and then went in withoutbeing bidden. Sol believed that was theway of it; he had no recollection ofanybody telling him to come in.

When it came Hammer’s turn toquestion the witness, he rose with an airof patronizing assurance. He called Sol byhis first name, in easy familiarity, althoughhe never had spoken to him before thatday. He proceeded as if he intended to

establish himself in the man’s confidenceby gentle handling, and in that mannercause him to confound, refute and entanglehimself by admissions made in gratitude.

But Sol was a suspicious customer. Hehesitated and he hummed, backed andsidled, and didn’t know anything morethan he had related. The bag of moneywhich had been found with Isom’s bodyhad been introduced by the state foridentification by Sol. Hammer took up thematter with a sudden turn towardsharpness and belligerency.

“You say that this is the same sack ofmoney that was there on the floor withIsom Chase’s body when you entered theroom?” he asked.

“That’s it,” nodded Sol.“Tell this jury how you know it’s the

same one!” ordered Hammer, in sternvoice.

“Well, I seen it,” said Sol.“Oh, yes, you saw it. Well, did you go

over to it and make a mark on it so you’dknow it again?”

“No, I never done that,” admitted Sol.“Don’t you know the banks are full of

little sacks of money like that?” Hammerwanted to know.

“I reckon maybe they air,” Sol replied.“And this one might be any one of a

thousand like it, mightn’t it, Sol?”“Well, I don’t reckon it could. That’s

the one Isom had.”“Did you step over where the dead

body was at and heft it?”“’Course I never,” said Sol.

“Did you open it and count the money init, or tie a string or something onto it soyou’d know it when you saw it again?”

“No, I never,” said Sol sulkily.“Then how do you know this is it?”“I tell you I seen it,” persisted Sol.“Oh, you seen it!” repeated Hammer,

sweeping the jury a cunning look as if toapprise them that he had found out justwhat he wanted to know, and that uponthat simple admission he was about to turnthe villainy of Sol Greening inside out forthem to see with their own intelligenteyes.

“Yes, I said I seen it,” maintained Sol,bristling up a little.

“Yes, I heard you say it, and now I wantyou to tell this jury how you know!”

Hammer threw the last word into Sol’sface with a slam that made him jump. Solturned red under the whiskers, around thewhiskers, and all over the uncovered partof him. He shifted in his chair; heswallowed.

“Well, I don’t just know,” said he.“No, you don’t–just–know!” sneered

Hammer, glowing in oily triumph. Helooked at the jury confidentially, as on thefooting of a shrewd man with his equallyshrewd audience.

Then he took up the old rifle, andIsom’s bloody coat and shirt, which werealso there as exhibits, and dressed Soldow n on all of them, working hard tocreate the impression in the minds of thejurors that Sol Greening was a born liar,and not to be depended on in the most

trivial particular.Hammer worked himself up into a

sweat and emitted a great deal of perfumeof barberish–and barbarous–character,and glanced around the court-room withtriumph in his eyes and satisfaction at thecorners of his mouth.

He came now to the uncertainty of Sol’smemory on the matter of being bidden toenter the kitchen when he knocked. Solhad now passed from doubt to certainty.Come to think it over, said he, nobody hadsaid a word when he knocked at that door.He remembered now that it was as stillinside the house as if everybody wasaway.

Mrs. Greening was standing against thewall, having that moment returned to theroom from ministering to her daughter’s

baby. She held the infant in her arms,waiting Sol’s descent from the witness-chair so she might settle down in her placewithout disturbing the proceedings. Whenshe heard her husband make this positivedeclaration, her mouth fell open and hereyes widened in surprise.

“Why Sol,” she spoke up reprovingly,“you told me Joe––”

It had taken the prosecuting attorney thatlong to glance around and spring to hisfeet. There his voice, in a loud appeal tothe court for the protection of his sacredrights, drowned that of mild Mrs.Greening. The judge rapped, the sheriffrapped; Captain Taylor, from his post atthe door, echoed the authoritative sound.

Hammer abruptly ceased hisquestioning of Sol, after the judge had

spoken a few crisp words ofadmonishment, not directed in particularat Mrs. Greening, but more to the public atlarge, regarding the decorum of the court.Sam Lucas thereupon took Sol in handagain, and drew him on to replace hisformer doubtful statement by his laterconclusion. As Sol left the witness-chairHammer smiled. He handed Mrs.Greening’s name to the clerk, andrequested a subpoena for her as a witnessfor the defense.

Sol’s son Dan was the next witness, andHammer put him through a similar courseof sprouts. Judge Maxwell allowedHammer to disport uncurbed until itbecame evident that, if given his way, thebarber-lawyer would drag the trial outuntil Joe was well along in middle life.

He then admonished Hammer that therewere bounds fixed for human existence,and that the case must get on.

Hammer was a bit uppish and resentful.He stood on his rights; he invoked thesacred constitution; he referred to therevised statutes; he put his hand into hiscoat and spread his legs to make amemorable protest.

Judge Maxwell took him in hand verykindly and led safely past the point ofexplosion with a smile of indulgence.With that done, the state came toConstable Bill Frost and his branchingmustaches, which he had trimmed up andsoaped back quite handsomely.

To his own credit and the surprise ofthe lawyers who were watching the case,Hammer made a great deal of the point of

Joe having gone to Frost, voluntarily andalone, to summon him to the scene of thetragedy. Frost admitted that he hadbelieved Joe’s story until Sol Greeninghad pointed out to him the suspiciouscircumstances.

“So you have to have somebody else todo your thinkin’ for you, do you?” saidHammer. “Well, you’re a fine officer ofthe law and a credit to this state!”

“I object!” said the prosecutingattorney, standing up in his place, very redaround the eyes.

The judge smiled, and the court-roomtittered. The sheriff looked back over hisshoulder and rapped the table for order.

“Comment is unnecessary, Mr.Hammer,” said the judge. “Proceed withthe case.”

And so that weary day passed in trivialquestioning on both sides, trivialbickerings, and waste of time, to the greatedifications of everybody but Joe and hismother, and probably the judge. Ten of thestate’s forty witnesses were disposed of,and Hammer was as moist as a jug of coldwater in a shock of wheat.

When the sheriff started to take Joeback to jail, the lad stood for a momentsearching the breaking-up and movingassembly with longing eyes. All day hehad sat with his back to the people, nothaving the heart to look around with thatshameful handcuff and chain binding hisarm to the chair. If Alice had been there,or Colonel Price, neither had comeforward to wish him well.

There were Ollie and her mother,

standing as they had risen from theirbench, waiting for the crowd ahead ofthem to set in motion toward the door, andhere and there a face from his ownneighborhood. But Alice was not amongthem. She had withdrawn her friendshipfrom him in his darkest hour.

Neither had Morgan appeared to put hisshoulder under the hard-pressing load andrelieve him of its weight. Day by day itwas growing heavier; but a little whileremained until it must crush out his hopeforever. Certainly, there was a way outwithout Morgan; there was a way open tohim leading back into the freedom of theworld, where he might walk again withthe sunlight on his face. A word wouldmake it clear.

But the sun would never strike again

into his heart if he should go back to itunder that coward’s reprieve, and Alice–Alice would scorn his memory.

CHAPTER XVIITHE BLOW OF A FRIEND

Progress was swifter the next day. Theprosecuting attorney, apparently believingthat he had made his case, dismissed manyof his remaining witnesses who hadnothing to testify to in fact. When heannounced that the state rested, there wasa murmur and rustling in the room, andaudibly expressed wonderment over whatthe public thought to be a grave blunder onSam Lucas’s part.

The state had not called the widow ofIsom Chase to the stand to give testimonyagainst the man accused of her husband’smurder. The public could not make it out.

What did it mean? Did the prosecutor holdher more of an enemy than a friend to hisefforts to convict the man whose hand hadmade her a widow? Whispers wentaround, grave faces were drawn, wiseheads wagged. Public charity for Olliebegan to falter.

“Him and that woman,” men said,nodding toward Joe, sitting pale andinscrutable beside his blustering lawyer.

The feeling of impending sensationbecame more acute when it circulatedthrough the room, starting from CaptainTaylor at the inner door, that Ollie hadbeen summoned as a witness for thedefense; Captain Taylor had served thesubpoena himself.

“Well, in that case, Sam Lucas knewwhat he was doing,” people allowed.

“Just wait!” It was as good as a spirituousstimulant to their lagging interest. “Justyou wait till Sam Lucas gets hold of her,”they said.

Hammer began the defense by callinghis character witnesses and establishingJoe’s past reputation for “truth andveracity and general uprightness.”

There was no question in the characterwhich Joe’s neighbors gave him. Theyspoke warmly of his past record amongthem, of his fidelity to his word andobligation, and of the family record,which Hammer went into with free andunhampered hand.

The prosecutor passed these witnesseswith serene confidence. He probablybelieved that his case was already made,people said, or else he was reserving his

fire for Isom’s widow, who, it seemed toeverybody, had turned against nature andher own interests in allying herself withthe accused.

The morning was consumed in theexamination of these character witnesses,Hammer finishing with the last of themjust before the midday adjournment. Thesheriff was preparing to remove theprisoner. Joe’s hand had been releasedfrom the arm of the chair, and the officerhad fastened the iron around his wrist. Theproceeding always struck Joe with anoverwhelming wave of degradation andnow he stood with bowed head andaverted face.

“Come on,” said the sheriff, gogglingdown at him with froggish eyes from hisvantage on the dais where the witness-

chair stood, his long neck on a slant like agiraffe’s. The sheriff took great pleasurein the proceeding of attaching the irons. Itwas his one central moment in the eyes ofthe throng.

Joe looked up to march ahead of thesheriff out of the room, and his eyes metthe eyes of Alice. She was not far away,and the cheer of their quick message waslike a spoken word. She was wearing thesame gray dress that she had worn on thatday of days, with the one bright feather inher bonnet, and she smiled, nodding tohim. And then the swirl of bobbing headsand moving bodies came between themand she was lost.

He looked for her again as the sheriffpushed him along toward the door, but theroom was in such confusion that he could

not single her out. The judge had gone outthrough his tall, dark door, and the court-room was no longer an awesome place tothose who had gathered for the trial. Menput their hats on their heads and lit theirpipes, and bit into their twists and plugs oftobacco and emptied their mouths of thejuices as they went slowly toward thedoor.

Mrs. Greening was the first witnesscalled by Hammer after the noon recess.Hammer quickly discovered his purposein calling her as being nothing less thanthat of proving by her own mouth that herhusband, Sol, was a gross andirresponsible liar.

Hammer went over the whole story ofthe tragedy–Mrs. Greening havingpreviously testified to all these facts as a

witness for the state–from the moment thatSol had called her out of bed and takenher to the Chase home to support the youngwidow in her hour of distraction and fear.By slow and lumbering ways he led her,like a blind horse floundering along aheavy road, through the front door, up thestairs into Ollie’s room, and then, in hisown time and fashion, he arrived at whathe wanted to ask.

“Now I want you to tell this jury, Mrs.Greening, if at any time, during that nightor thereafter, you discussed or talked of orchatted about the killing of Isom Chasewith your husband?” asked Hammer.

“Oh laws, yes,” said Mrs. Greening.The prosecuting attorney was rising

slowly to his feet. He seemedconcentrated on something; a frown

knotted his brow, and he stood with hisopen hand poised as if to reach outquickly and check the flight of somethingwhich he expected to wing in and assailthe jury.

Said Hammer, after wiping hisglistening forehead with a yellow silkhandkerchief:

“Yes. And now, Mrs. Greening, I willask you if at any time your husband evertold you what was said, if anything, by anyparty inside of that house when he run upto the kitchen door that night andknocked?”

“I object!” said the prosecutor sharply,flinging out his ready hand.

“Don’t answer that question!” warnedthe judge.

Mrs. Greening had it on her lips;anybody who could read print on asignboard could have told what they wereshaped to say. She held them there in theirpreliminary position of enunciation,pursed and wrinkled, like the tied end of asausage-link.

“I will frame the question in anothermanner,” said Hammer, again feeling theneed of his large handkerchief.

“There is no form that would beadmissible, your honor,” protested theprosecutor. “It is merely hearsay that thecounsel for the defense is attempting tobring out and get before the jury. I object!”

“Your course of questioning, Mr.Hammer, is highly improper, and inflagrant violation to the established rulesof evidence,” said the judge. “You must

confine yourself to proof by this witnessof what she, of her own knowledge andexperience, is cognizant of. Nothing elseis permissible.”

“But, your honor, I intend to show bythis witness that when Sol Greeningknocked on that door––”

“I object! She wasn’t present; she hastestified that she was at home at that time,and in bed.”

This from the prosecutor, in great heat.“Your honor, I intend to prove–” began

Hammer.“This line of questioning is not

permissible, as I told you before,” said thejudge in stern reproof.

But Hammer was obdurate. He was forarguing it, and the judge ordered the

sheriff to conduct the jury from the room.Mrs. Greening, red and uncomfortable,and all at sea over it, continued sitting inthe witness-chair while Hammer laid it offaccording to his view of it, and theprosecutor came back and tore hiscontentions to pieces.

The judge, for no other purpose,evidently, than to prove to the defendantand public alike that he was unbiased andfair–knowing beforehand what his rulingmust be–indulged Hammer until heexpended his argument. Then he laid thematter down in few words.

Mrs. Greening had not been presentwhen her husband knocked on the door ofIsom Chase’s kitchen that night; she didnot know, therefore, of her ownexperience what was spoken. No matter

what her husband told her he said, oranybody else said, she could not repeatthe words there under oath. It would behearsay evidence, and such evidence wasnot admissible in any court of law. Nomatter how important such testimony mightappear to one seeking the truth, the rulesof evidence in civilized courts barred it.Mrs. Greening’s lips must remain sealedon what Sol said Joe said, or anybodysaid to someone else.

So the jury was called back, and Mrs.Greening was excused, and Hammerwiped off the sweat and pushed back hiscuffs. And the people who had come infrom their farmsteads to hear this trial byjury–all innocent of the traditions andprecedents of practice of the law–marveled how it could be. Why, nine

people out of nine, all over the townshipwhere Sol Greening lived, would take hiswife’s word for anything where she andSol had different versions of a story.

It looked to them like Sol had told thetruth in the first place to his wife, and liedon the witness-stand. And here she was,all ready to show the windy old rascal up,and they wouldn’t let her. Well, it beat alltwo o’clock!

Of course, being simple people whohad never been at a university in theirlives, they did not know that Form andPrecedent are the two pillars of Strengthand Beauty, the Jachin and Boaz at theentrance of the temple of the law. Or thatthe proper genuflections before them areof more importance than the mere bringingout of a bit of truth which might save an

accused man’s life.And so it stood before the jury that Sol

Greening had knocked on the door of IsomChase’s kitchen that night and had notbeen bidden to enter, when everybody inthe room, save the jury of twelveintelligent men–who had been taken out tokeep their innocence untainted and theirjudgment unbiased by a gleam of the truth–knew that he had sat up there and lied.

Hammer cooled himself off after a fewminutes of mopping, and called OllieChase to the witness-chair. Ollie seemednervous and full of dread as she stood fora moment stowing her cloak and handbagin her mother’s lap. She turned back forher handkerchief when she had almostreached the little gate in the railingthrough which she must pass to the

witness-chair. Hammer held it open forher and gave her the comfort of his handunder her elbow as she went forward totake her place.

A stir and a whispering, like a quickwind in a cornfield, moved over the roomwhen Ollie’s name was called. Thensilence ensued. It was more than a merelistening silence; it was impertinent.Everybody looked for a scandal, and mostof them hoped that they should not departthat day with their long-growing hungerunsatisfied.

Ollie took the witness-chair with an airof extreme nervousness. As she settleddown in her cloud of black skirt, blackveil, and shadow of black sailor hat, shecast about the room a look of timidappeal. She seemed to be sounding the

depths of the listening crowd’s sympathy,and to find it shallow and in shoals.

Hammer was kind, with an unctuous,patronizing gentleness. He seemed toapproach her with the feeling that shemight say a great deal that would bedamaging to the defendant if she had amind to do it, but with gentle adroitnessshe could be managed to his advantage.Led by a question here, a helping reminderthere, Ollie went over her story, in allparticulars the same as she had related atthe inquest.

Hammer brought out, with manyconfidential glances at the jury, thedistance between Ollie’s room and thekitchen; the fact that she had her doorclosed, that she had gone to bed heavywith weariness, and was asleep long

before midnight; that she had been startledby a sound, a strange and mysterioussound for that quiet house, and had sat upin her bed listening. Sol Greening hadcalled her next, in a little while, evenbefore she could master her fright andconfusion and muster courage to run downthe hall and call Joe.

Hammer did well with the witness; thatwas the general opinion, drawing from hera great deal about Joe’s habit of life inIsom’s house, a great deal about Isom’stemper, hard ways, and readiness to give ablow.

She seemed reluctant to discuss Isom’sfaults, anxious, rather, to ease them overafter the manner of one whose judgmenthas grown less severe with the lapse oftime.

Had he ever laid hands on her intemper? Hammer wanted to know.

“Yes.” Her reply was a little more thana whisper, with head bent, with tears inher sad eyes. Under Hammer’s pressureshe told about the purchase of the ribbon,of Isom’s iron hand upon her throat.

The women all over the room madelittle sounds of pitying deprecation of oldIsom’s penury, and when Hammer drewfrom her, with evident reluctance on herpart to yield it up, the story of her hard-driven, starved, and stingy life underIsom’s roof, they put their handkerchiefsto their eyes.

All the time Ollie was followingHammer’s kind leading, the prosecutingattorney was sitting with his handsclasped behind his head, balancing his

weight on the hinder legs of his chair, hisfoot thrown over his knee. Apparently hewas bored, even worried, by Hammer’spounding attempts to make Isom out a manwho deserved something slower and lessmerciful than a bullet, years before hecame to his violent end.

Through it all Joe sat looking at Ollie,great pity for her forlorn condition andbroken spirit in his honest eyes. She didnot meet his glance, not for one waveringsecond. When she went to the stand shepassed him with bent head; in the chairshe looked in every direction but his,mainly at her hands, clasped in her lap.

At last Hammer seemed skirmishing inhis mind in search of some stray questionwhich might have escaped him, which heappeared unable to find. He turned his

papers, he made a show of consideringsomething, while the witness sat with herhead bowed, her half-closed eyelidspurple from much weeping, worrying, andwatching for the coming of one who hadtaken the key to her poor, simple heart andgone his careless way.

“That’s all, Missis Chase,” saidHammer.

Ollie leaned over, picked up one of hergloves that had fallen to the floor, andstarted to leave the chair. Her relief wasevident in her face. The prosecutor,suddenly alive, was on his feet. Hestretched out his arm, staying her with acommanding gesture.

“Wait a minute, Mrs. Chase,” said he.A stir of expectation rustled through the

room again as Ollie resumed her seat.

People moistened their lips, suddenlygrown hot and dry.

“Now, just watch Sam Lucas!” theysaid.

“Now, Mrs. Chase,” began theprosecutor, assuming the polemicalattitude common to small lawyers whencross-examining a witness; “I’ll ask you totell this jury whether you were alone inyour house with Joe Newbolt on the nightof October twelfth, when Isom Chase,your husband, was killed?”

“Yes, sir.”“This man Morgan, the book-agent, who

had been boarding with you, had paid hisbill and gone away?”

“Yes, sir.”“And there was absolutely nobody in

the house that night but yourself and JoeNewbolt?”

“Nobody else.”“And you have testified, here on this

witness-stand, before this court and thisjury”–that being another small lawyer’strick to impress the witness with a senseof his own unworthiness–“that you went tobed early that night. Now, where was JoeNewbolt?”

“I guess he was in bed,” answeredOllie, her lips white; “I didn’t go to see.”

“No, you didn’t go to see,” repeated theprosecutor with significant stress. “Verywell. Where did your husband keep hismoney in the house?”

“I don’t know; I never saw any of it,”Ollie answered.

The reply drew a little jiggling laughfrom the crowd. It rose and died evenwhile Captain Taylor’s knuckles werepoised over the panel of the door, and hisloud rap fell too late for all, save onedeep-chested farmer in a far corner, whomust have been a neighbor of old Isom.This man’s raucous mirth seemed a roarabove the quiet of the packed room. Theprosecutor looked in his direction with afrown. The sheriff stood up and peeredover that way threateningly.

“Preserve order, Mr. Sheriff,” said thejudge severely.

The sheriff pounded the table with hishairy fist. “Now, I tell you I don’t want tohear no more of this!” said he.

The prosecutor was shaken out of hispose a bit by the court-room laugh. There

is nothing equal to a laugh for that, to onewho is laboring to impress his importanceupon the world. It took him some time toget back to his former degree of heat,skirmishing around with incidentalquestioning. He looked over his notes,pausing. Then he faced Ollie againquickly, leveling his finger like a pointerof direct accusation.

“Did Joe Newbolt ever make love toyou?” he asked.

Joe’s face flushed with resentful fire;but Ollie’s white calm, forced andstrained that it was, remained unchanged.

“No, sir; he never did.”“Did he ever kiss you?”“No, I tell you, he didn’t!” Ollie

answered, with a little show of spirit.

Hammer rose with loud and volubleobjections, which had, for the first timeduring the proceedings, Joe’s heartyindorsement. But the judge waved himdown, and the prosecutor pressed his newline of inquisition.

“You and Joe Newbolt were throwntogether a good deal, weren’t you, Mrs.Chase–you were left there alone in thehouse while your husband was away in thefield, and other places, frequently?”

“No, not very much,” said Ollie,shaking her head.

“But you had various opportunities fortalking together alone, hadn’t you?”

“I never had a chance for anything butwork,” said Ollie wearily.

Unawed by the sheriff’s warning, the

assembly laughed again. The sound ranover the room like a scudding cloudacross a meadow, and when the sheriffstood again to set his censorious eye uponsomeone responsible, the last ripple wason the farther rows. Nobody can catch alaugh in a crowd; it is as evasive as apickpocket. Nobody can turn withwatchful eye upon it and tell in what facethe ribald gleam first breaks. It is asimpossible as the identification of the firststalk shaken when a breeze assails a fieldof grain.

The sheriff, not being deeper thananother man, saw the fatuity of his labor.He turned to the court with a clownishgesture of the hands, expressive of hisutter inability to stop this thing.

“Proceed with the case,” said the judge,

understanding the situation better than thesheriff knew.

The prosecuting attorney labored awaywith Ollie, full of the feeling thatsomething masked lay behind her palereticence, some guilty conspiracy betweenher and the bound boy, which would showthe lacking motive for the crime. He askedher again about Morgan, how long she hadknown him, where he came from, andwhere he went–a question to which Olliewould have been glad enough to have hadthe answer herself.

He hung on to the subject of Morgan sopersistently that Joe began to feel histhroat drying out with a closing sensationwhich he could not swallow. He trembledfor Ollie, fearing that she would be forcedinto telling it all. That was not a woman’s

story, thought he, with a heart full ofresentment for the prosecutor. Let himwait till Morgan came, and then––

But what grounds had he now forbelieving Morgan might come? Unless hecame within the next hour, his comingmight be too late.

“You were in bed and asleep when theshot that killed your husband was fired,you have told the jury, Mrs. Chase?”questioned the prosecutor, droppingMorgan at last.

“Yes, sir.”“Then how did it come that when Mrs.

Greening and her daughter-in-law arriveda few minutes later you were all dressedup in a white dress?”

“I just slipped it on,” said she.

“You just slipped it on,” repeated theprosecutor, turning his eyes to the jury,and not even facing Mrs. Chase as hespoke, but reading into her wordsdiscredit, suspicion, and a guiltyknowledge.

“It was the only one I had besides twoold wrappers. It was the one I wasmarried in, and the only one I could put onto look decent in before people,” said she.

A crowd is the most volatile thing in theworld. It can laugh and sigh and groan andweep, as well as shout and storm, with theease of an infant, and then immediatelyregain its immobility and fixed attention.With Ollie’s simple statement a soundrose from it which was a denunciation anda curse upon the ashes of old Isom Chase.It was as if a sympathetic old lady had

shaken her head and groaned:“Oh, shame on you–shame!”Hammer gave the jury a wide-sweeping

look of satisfaction, and made a note onthe tumbled pile of paper which lay infront of him.

The prosecutor was a man withcongressional aspirations, and he did notcare to prejudice his popularity by goingtoo far in baiting a woman, especially onewho had public sympathy in the measurethat it was plainly extended to Ollie. Heeased up, descending from his heights ofseverity, and began to address herrespectfully in a manner that was littleshort of apology for what his stern dutycompelled him to do.

“Now I will ask you, Mrs. Chase,whether your husband and this defendant,

Joe Newbolt, ever had words in yourhearing?”

“Once,” Ollie replied.“Do you recall the day?”“It was the morning after Joe came to

our house to work,” said she.“Do you remember what the trouble

was about and what said?”“Well, they said a good deal,” Ollie

answered. “They fussed because Joedidn’t get up when Isom called him.”

Joe felt his heart contract. It seemed tohim that Ollie need not have gone into that;it looked as if she was bent not alone onprotecting herself, but on fastening thecrime on him. It gave him a feeling ofuneasiness. Sweat came out on hisforehead; his palms grew moist. He had

looked for Ollie to stand by him at least,and now she seemed running away, eagerto tell something that would sound to hisdiscredit.

“You may tell the jury what happenedthat morning, Mrs. Chase.”

Hammer’s objection fell on barrenground, and Ollie told the story under thedirections of the judge.

“You say there was a sound of scufflingafter Isom called him?” asked theprosecutor.

“Yes, it sounded like Isom shook himand Joe jumped out of bed.”

“And what did Joe Newbolt say?”“He said, ‘Put that down! I warned you

never to lift your hand against me. If youhit me, I’ll kill you in your tracks!’”

“That’s what you heard Joe Newboltsay to your husband up there in the loftover your head?”

The prosecutor was eager. He leanedforward, both hands on the table, andlooked at her almost hungrily. Thejurymen shuffled their feet and sat up intheir chairs with renewed interest. A hushfell over the room. Here was the motive atthe prosecutor’s hand.

“That’s what he said,” Ollie affirmed,her gaze bent downward.

She told how Isom had come downafter that, followed by Joe. And theprosecutor asked her to repeat what sheh a d heard Joe say once more for thebenefit of the jury. He spoke with the airof a man who already has the game in thebag.

When the prosecutor was through withhis profitable cross-examination, Hammertried to lessen the effect of Ollie’sdamaging disclosure, but failed. He was adepressed and crestfallen man when hegave it up.

Ollie stepped down from the place ofinquisition with the color of life comingagain into her drained lips and cheeks, thebreath freer in her throat. Her secret hadnot been torn from her fearful heart; shehad deepened the cloud that hung over JoeNewbolt’s head. “Let him blab now,” saidshe in her inner satisfaction. A man mightsay anything against a woman to save hisneck; she was wise enough and deepenough, for all her shallowness, to knowthat people were quick to understand athing like that.

In passing back to her place beside hermother she had not looked at Joe. So shedid not see the perplexity, anxiety, evenreproach, which had grown in Joe’s eyeswhen she testified against him.

“She had no need to do that,” thoughtJoe, sitting there in the glow of theprosecutor’s triumphant face. He hadtrusted Ollie to remain his friend, and,although she had told nothing but the truthconcerning his rash threat against Isom, itseemed to him that she had done so with astudied intent of working him harm.

His resentment rose against Ollie,urging him to betray her guilty relationswith Morgan and strip her of theprotecting mantle which he had wrappedabout her at the first. He wonderedwhether Morgan had not come and entered

into a conspiracy with her to shieldthemselves. In such case what would hisunfolding of the whole truth amount to,discredited as he already was in the mindsof the jurors by that foolish threat whichhe had uttered against Isom in the thindawn of that distant day?

Perhaps Alice had gone away, also,after hearing Ollie’s testimony, in thebelief that he was altogether unworthy,and already branded with theresponsibility for that old man’s death. Helonged to look behind him and search thethrong for her, but he dared not.

Joe bowed his head, as oneoverwhelmed by a sense of guilt andshame, yet never doubting that he hadacted for the best when he assumed therisk on that sad night to shield his master’s

wife. It was a thing that a man must do,that a man would do again.

He did not know that Alice Price,doubting not him, but the woman who hadjust left the witness-stand and resumed herplace among the people, was that momentsearching out the shallow soul of OllieChase with her accusing eyes. She sat onlya little way from Ollie, in the same row ofbenches, beside the colonel. She turned alittle in her place so she could see theyoung widow’s face when she came downfrom the stand with that new light in hereyes. Now she whispered to her father,and looked again, bending forward a littlein a way that seemed impertinent,considering that it was Alice Price.

Ollie was disconcerted by thisattention, which drew other curious eyes

upon her. She moved uneasily, making abustle of arranging herself and herbelongings in the seat, her heart troubledwith the shadow of some vague fear.

Why did Alice Price look at her soaccusingly? Why did she turn to her fatherand nod and whisper that way? What didshe know? What could she know? Whatwas Joe Newbolt and his obscure life toColonel Price’s fine daughter, sitting theredressed better than any other woman in theroom? Or what was Isom Chase, his life,his death, or his widow, to her?

Yet she had some interest beyond apassing curiosity, for Ollie could feel theconcentration of these sober brown eyesupon her, even when she turned to avoidthem. She recalled the interest thatColonel Price and his daughter had taken

in Joe. People had talked of it at first.They couldn’t understand it any more thanshe could. The colonel and his daughterhad visited Joe in jail, and carried booksto him, and treated him as one upon theirown level.

What had Joe told them? Had thecoward betrayed her?

Ollie was assailed again by all her old,dread fears. What if they should get up anddenounce her? With all of Colonel Price’spolitical and social influence, would notthe public, and the judge and jury, believeJoe’s story if he should say it was true?She believed now that it was all arrangedfor Joe to denounce her, and that timidinvasion of color was stemmed in hercheeks again.

It was a lowering day, with a threat of

unseasonable darkness in the waningafternoon. The judge looked at his watch;Captain Taylor stirred himself and pushedthe shutters back from the two windowsfarthest from the bench, and let in morelight.

People did not know just what wascoming next, but the atmosphere of theroom was charged with a foreboding ofsomething big. No man would risk missingit by leaving, although rain wasthreatening, and long drives over darkroads lay ahead of many of the anxiouslisteners.

Hammer was in consultation with Joeand his mother. He seemed to beprotesting and arguing, with a mightyspreading of the hands and shaking of thehead. The judge was writing busily,

making notes on his charge to the jury, itwas supposed.

The prosecuting attorney tookadvantage of the momentary lull to get upand stretch his legs, which he did literally,one after the other, shaking his shanks tosend down his crumpled pantaloons. Hewent to the window with lounging stride,hands in pockets, and pushed the sash afoot higher. There he stood, looking outinto the mists which hung gray in themaple trees.

The jurymen, tired and unshaved, andover the momentary thrill of Ollie’sdisclosure, lolled and sprawled in thebox. It seemed that they now accepted thething as settled, and the prospect of furtherwaiting was boresome. The people set upa little whisper of talk, a clearing of

throats, a blowing of noses, a shifting offeet, a general preparation andreadjustment for settling down again toabsorb all that might fall.

The country folk seated in the vicinityof Alice Price, among whom her fame hadtraveled far, whom many of their sons hadloved, and languished for, and gone off torun streetcars on her account, turned theirfreed attention upon her, nudging, gazing,gossiping.

“Purty as a picture, ain’t she?”“Oh, I don’t know. You set her

’longside of Bessie Craver over at PinkHill”–and so on.

The judge looked up from his papersuddenly, as if the growing sound withinthe room had startled him out of histhought. His face wore a fleeting

expression of surprise. He looked at theprosecutor, at the little group inconference at the end of the table belowhim, as if he did not understand. Then hisjudicial poise returned. He tapped withhis pen on the inkstand.

“Gentlemen, proceed with the case,”said he.

The prosecuting attorney turned fromthe window with alacrity, and Hammer,sweating and shaking his head in one lastgesture of protest to his client–who leanedback and folded his arms, with set andstubborn face–rose ponderously. Hewiped his forehead with his great, broadhandkerchief, and squared himself as ifabout to try a high hurdle or plunge awayin a race.

“Joseph Newbolt, take the witness-

chair,” said he.

CHAPTER XVIIIA NAME AND A MESSAGE

When Hammer called his name, Joe felt arevival of his old desire to go to thewitness-chair and tell Judge Maxwell allabout it in his own way, untenable anddangerous as his position had appeared tohim in his hours of depression. Now thesheriff released his arm, and he wentforward eagerly. He held up his handsolemnly while the clerk administered theoath, then took his place in the witness-chair. Ollie’s face was the first one thathis eyes found in the crowd.

It seemed as if a strong light had beenfocused upon it, leaving the rest of the

house in gloom. The shrinking appealwhich lay in her eyes moved him to pity.He strove to make her understand that thecunning of the sharpest lawyer could setno trap which would surprise her secretfrom him, nor death itself display terrorsto frighten it out of his heart.

It seemed that a sunbeam broke in theroom then, but perhaps it was only theclearing away of doubt and vacillationfrom his mind, with the respectablefeeling that he had regained all the nobilitywhich was slipping from him, and hadcome back to a firm understanding withhimself.

And there was Alice, a little nearer tothe bar than he had expected to see her.Her face seemed strained and anxious, buthe could not tell whether her sympathy

was dearer, her feeling softer for him inthat hour than it would have been for anyother man. Colonel Price had yielded hisseat to a woman, and now he stood at theback of the room in front of the inner dooras a privileged person, beside CaptainTaylor.

Mrs. Newbolt sat straight-backed andexpectant, her hand on the back of Joe’sempty chair, while the eager peoplestrained forward to possess themselves ofthe sensation which they felt must soon beloosed among them.

Joe’s hair had grown long during hisconfinement. He had smoothed it backfrom his forehead and tucked it behind hisears. The length of it, the profusion,sharpened the thinness of his face; thedepth of its blackness drew out his pallor

until he seemed all bloodless and cold.Three inches of great, bony arm showed

below his coat sleeves; that spare garmentbuttoned across his chest, strained at itsseams. Joe wore the boots which he hadon when they arrested him, scarred andwork-worn by the stubble and thorns ofIsom Chase’s fields and pastures. Histrousers were tucked into their wrinkledtops, which sagged half-way down hislong calves.

Taken in the figure alone, he wasuncouth and oversized in his common andscant gear. But the lofty nobility of hissevere young face and the high-liftingforehead, proclaimed to all who werecompetent in such matters that it was onlyhis body that was meanly clad.

Hammer began by asking the usual

questions regarding nativity and age, andled on with the history of Joe’sapprenticeship to Chase, the terms of it, itsduration, compensation; of his treatment athis master’s hands, their relations offriendliness, and all that. There was alittle tremor and unsteadiness in Joe’svoice at first, as of fright, but this sooncleared away, and he answered in steadytones.

The jurors had straightened up out oftheir wearied apathy, and were listeningnow with all ears. Joe did not appear tocomprehend their importance in decidinghis fate, people thought, seeing that heturned from them persistently andaddressed the judge.

Joe had taken the stand againstHammer’s advice and expectation, for he

had hoped in the end to be able to makehis client see the danger of such a stepunless he should go forward in theintention of revealing everything. Now thevoluble lawyer was winded. Heproceeded with extreme caution in hisquestioning, like one walking over minedground, fearing that he might himself leadhis client into some fateful admission.

They at length came down to themorning that Isom went away to thecounty-seat to serve on the jury, and allhad progressed handsomely. Now Joe toldhow Isom had patted him on the shoulderthat morning, for it had been the aim ofHammer all along to show that master andman were on the most friendly terms, andhow Isom had expressed confidence inhim. He recounted how, in discharge of

the trust that Isom had put in him, he hadcome downstairs on the night of thetragedy to look around the premises,following in all particulars his testimonyon this point before the coroner’s jury.

Since beginning his story, Joe had notlooked at Ollie. His attention had beendivided between Hammer and the judge,turning from one to the other. Headdressed the jury only when admonishedby Hammer to do so, and then hefrequently prefaced his reply to Hammer’squestion with:

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” as if hefeared he might have hurt their feelings byhis oversight.

Ollie was cold with apprehension asJoe approached the point in his recitalwhere the danger lay for her. He seemed

now to be unaware of her presence, andthe fact that he did not seek to assure herwith his eyes gave a somber color to herdoubts. She knew Hammer’s craftyreputation, and understood his eagernessto bring his client off clear. Perhaps hehad worked on Joe to make a clean breastof it. Maybe he was going to tell.

All her confidence of a little while agodissolved, the ease which followed herdescent from the witness-chair vanished.She plucked at her dark vestments withtrembling hands, her lips half open, herburning eyes on Joe’s unmoved face. If heshould tell before all these people, beforethat stern, solemn judge–if he should tell!

Joe went on with his story, Hammerendeavoring to lead him, to the best of hisaltogether inadequate ability, around the

dangerous shoals. But there was noavoiding them. When it came to relatingthe particulars of the tragedy, Hammer leftit all to Joe, and Joe told the story, in allessentials, just as he had told it under thequestioning of the coroner.

“We had some words, and Isom startedfor the gun,” said he.

He went over how he had grappledwith Isom in an endeavor to prevent himturning the gun against him; told of theaccidental discharge of the weapon; thearrival of Sol Greening.

Judge Maxwell leaned back in his chairand listened, his face a study of perplexityand interest. Now and then he lifted hisdrooping lids and shot a quick, searchingglance at the witness, as if seeking tofathom the thing that he had covered–the

motive for Isom Chase’s act. It was suchan inadequate story, yet what there was ofit was undoubtedly true.

After Hammer had asked furtherquestions tending to establish the fact ofgood feeling and friendship between Joeand Isom, he gave it over, knowing fullwell that Joe had set back his chances ofacquittal further than he had advancedthem by his persistency in testifying as hehad done.

The jury was now in a fog of doubt, asanybody with half an eye could see, andthere was Sam Lucas waiting, his eyesglistening, his hard lips set in anticipationof the coming fight.

“Take the witness,” said Hammer, withsomething in his manner like a sigh.

The prosecuting attorney came up to it

like a hound on the scent. He had beenwaiting for that day. He proceeded withJoe in a friendly manner, and went overthe whole thing with him again, from theday that he entered Isom’s house underbond service to the night of the tragedy.Sam Lucas went with Joe to the gate; hestood with him in the moonlight there; thenhe accompanied him back to the house,clinging to him like his own garments.

“And when you opened the kitchen doorand stepped inside of that room, what didyou do?” asked the prosecutor, arrangingthe transcript of Joe’s testimony before thecoroner’s jury in his hands.

“I lit the lamp,” said Joe.“Yes; you lit the lamp. Now, why did

you light the lamp?”“Because I wanted to see,” replied Joe.

“Exactly. You wanted to see.”Here the prosecutor moved his eyes

slowly along the two rows of jurors as ifhe wanted to make certain that none ofthem had escaped, and as if he desired tosee that every one of them was alert andwakeful for what he was about to develop.

“Now, tell the jury what you wanted tosee.”

“Object!” from Hammer, who rose withhis right hand held high, his small fingerand thumb doubled in his palm, like abidder at an auction.

“Now, your honor, am I to be–” beganthe prosecutor with wearied patience.

“Object!” interrupted Hammer,sweating like a haymaker.

“To what do you object, Mr. Hammer?”

asked the court mildly.“To anything and everything he’s about

to ask!” said Hammer hotly.The court-room received this with a

laugh, for there were scores of cornfieldlawyers present. The judge smiled,balancing a pen between finger and thumb.

“The objection is overruled,” said he.“When you lit that lamp, what did you

want to see?” the prosecutor asked again.“I wanted to see my way upstairs,” Joe

answered.The prosecutor threw off his friendly

manner like a rustic flinging his coat for afight. He stepped to the foot of the dais onwhich the witness chair stood, and aimedhis finger at Joe’s face.

“What were you carrying in your

hand?” he demanded, advancing his fingera little with every word, as if it held thekey to the mystery, and it was about to beinserted in the lock.

“Nothing, sir.”“What had you hidden in that room that

you wanted a light to find?”Ha, he’s coming down to it now!

whispered the people, turning wise looksfrom man to man. Uncle Posen Spratt sethis horn trumpet to his ear, gave it a twistand settled the socket of it so firmly thatnot a word could leak out on the way.

“I hadn’t hidden anything, sir,” saidJoe.

“Where did Isom Chase keep hismoney?”

“I don’t know.”

“Had you ever seen him putting any of itaway around the barn, or in the haystack,maybe?”

“No, I never did, sir,” Joe answered,respectfully.

The prosecutor took up the now historicbag of gold-pieces and held it up beforethe witness.

“When did you first see this bag ofmoney?” he asked, solemn and severe ofvoice and bearing.

“When Isom was lying on the floor,after he was shot.”

“You didn’t see it when he was tryingto get the gun, and when you say you werestruggling with him, doing the best youcould to hold him back?”

Joe turned to the judge when he

answered.“It might have been that Isom had it in

his arm, sir, when he made for the placewhere the gun was hanging. I don’t know.But he tried to keep me off, and he huggedone arm to his side like he was trying tohide something he didn’t want me to see.”

“You never saw that bag of money untilthe moment that Isom Chase fell, you say,”said the prosecutor, “but you havetestified that the first words of Isom Chasewhen he stepped into the kitchen and sawyou, were ‘I’ll kill you!’ Why did he makethat threat?”

“Well, Isom was a man of unreasonabletemper,” said Joe.

“Isn’t it a fact that Isom Chase saw youwith that bag of money in your hand whenhe came in, and sprang for the gun to

protect his property?”Joe turned to the judge again, with an

air of respectful patience.“I never saw that little pouch of money,

Judge Maxwell, sir, until Isom fell, andlay stretched out there on the floor. I neversaw that much money before in my life,and I expect that I thought more about itfor a minute than I did about Isom. It allhappened so quick, you know, sir.”

Joe spoke the last words with a covertappeal in them, as if placing the matterbefore the judge alone, in the confidenceof his superior understanding, and thebelief that he would feel their truth.

The judge seemed to understand. Henodded encouragingly and smiled.

“Do you recall the morning after your

arrival at the home of Isom Chase to beginyour service there, when you threatened tokill him?” asked the prosecutor.

“I do recall that morning,” admittedJoe; “but I don’t feel that it’s fair to holdme to account for words spoken in suddenanger and under trying circumstances. Ayoung person, you know, sir”–addressingthe judge–“oftentimes says things he don’tmean, and is sorry for the next minute.You know how hot the blood of youth is,sir, and how it drives a person to saymore than he means sometimes.”

“Now, your honor, this defendant hascounsel to plead for him at the propertime,” complained the prosecutor, “and Idemand that he confine himself toanswering my questions withoutcomment.”

“Let the witness explain in his ownway,” said the judge, who probably feltthat this concession, at least, was due aman on trial for his life. There was afinality in his words which did not admitof dispute, and the prosecuting attorneywas wise enough not to attempt it.

“You threatened to kill Isom Chase thatmorning when he laid hands on you andpulled you out of bed. Your words were,as you have heard Mrs. Chase testifyunder oath in that very chair where younow sit, ‘If you hit me, I’ll kill you in yourtracks!’ Those were your words, werethey not?”

“I expect I said something like that–Idon’t just remember the exact words now–but that was what I wanted him tounderstand. I don’t think I’d have hurt him

very much, though, and I couldn’t havekilled him, because I wasn’t armed. It wasa hot-blooded threat, that’s all it was.”

“You didn’t ordinarily pack a gunaround with you, then?”

“No, sir, I never did pack a gun.”“But you said you’d kill old Isom up

there in the loft that morning, and you saidit in a way that made him think you meantit. That’s what you wanted him tounderstand, wasn’t it?”

“I talked rough, but I didn’t mean it–notas bad as that anyhow.”

“No, that was just a little neighborlyjoke, I suppose,” said the prosecutorsneeringly. He was playing for a laugh andhe got it.

Captain Taylor almost skinned his

knuckles rapping them down that time,although the mirth was neither general norboisterous. Joe did not add to Lucas’scomment, and he went on:

“Well, what were you doing when IsomChase opened the door and came into thekitchen that night when he came homefrom serving on the jury?”

“I was standing by the table,” said Joe.“With your hat in your hand, or on your

head, or where?”“My hat was on the table. I usually left

it there at night, so it would be handywhen I came down in the morning. I threwit there when I went in, before I lit thelamp.”

“And you say that Isom opened thedoor, came in and said, ‘I’ll kill you!’

Now, what did he say before that?”“Not a word, sir,” insisted Joe.“Who else was in that room?”“Nobody, sir.”The prosecutor leaned forward, his face

as red as if he struggled to lift a heavyweight.

“Do you mean to sit there and tell thisjury that Isom Chase stepped right into thatroom and threatened to kill you withoutany reason, without any previous quarrel,without seeing you doing something thatgave him ground for his threat?”

Joe moved his feet uneasily, claspedand unclasped his long fingers where theyrested on the arm of his chair, andmoistened his lips with his tongue. Thestruggle was coming now. They would

rack him, and tear him, and break hisheart.

“I don’t know whether they’ll believe itor not,” said he at last.

“Where was Ollie Chase when Isomcame into that room?” asked theprosecutor, lowering his voice as the menwho tiptoed around old Isom when he laydead on the kitchen floor had loweredtheirs.

“You have heard her say that she was inher room upstairs,” said Joe.

“But I am asking you this question,” theprosecutor reminded him sharply. “Wherewas Ollie Chase?”

Joe did not meet his questioner’s eyeswhen he answered. His head was bowedslightly, as if in thought.

“She was in her room, I suppose. She’dbeen in bed a long time, for it was nearlymidnight then.”

The prosecuting attorney pursued thisline of questioning to a persistent andtrying length. He wanted to know all aboutthe relations of Joe and Ollie; where theirrespective rooms were, how they passedto and from them, and the entire scheme ofthe household economy.

He asked Joe pointedly, and swungback to that question abruptly and withsharp challenge many times, whether heever made love to Ollie; whether he everheld her hands, kissed her, talked with herwhen Isom was not by to hear what wassaid.

The people snuggled down and forgotthe oncoming darkness, the gray

forerunner of which already had invadedthe room as they listened. This was whatthey wanted to hear; this was, in theiropinion, getting down to the thing that theprosecutor should have taken up at thebeginning and pushed to the guilty end.They had come there, day after day, andsat patiently waiting for that very thing.But the great sensation which theyexpected seemed a tedious thing in itsdevelopment.

Joe calmly denied the prosecutor’simputations, and put them aside with anevenness of temper and dignity whichlifted him to a place of high regard in theheart of every woman present, fromgrandmother to high-school miss. For eventhough a woman believes her sister guilty,she admires the man who knows when to

hold his tongue.For two hours and more Sam Lucas

kept hammering away at the stern front ofthe defendant witness. He had expected tobreak him down, simple-minded countrylad that he supposed him to be, in aquarter of that time, and draw from himthe truth of the matter in every detail. Itwas becoming evident that Joe wasfeeling the strain. The tiresome repetitionof the questions, the unvarying denial, thesudden sorties of the prosecutor in attemptto surprise him, and the constant labor ofguarding against it–all this was heaping upinto a terrific load.

Time and again Joe’s eyes had gone tothe magnet of Alice Price’s face, andalways he had seen her looking straight athim–steadily, understandingly, as if she

read his purpose. He was satisfied thatshe knew him to be innocent of that crime,as well as any of the indiscretions withOllie which the prosecutor had attemptedto force him to admit. If he could havebeen satisfied with that assurance alone,his hour would have been blessed. But helooked for more in every fleeting glancethat his eyes could wing to her, and in theturmoil of his mind he was unable to findthat which he sought.

Sam Lucas, seeing that the witness wasnearing the point of mental and physicalstrain at which men go to pieces, and thevigil which they have held above theirsecrets becomes open to surprise, hung tohim with his worriment of questions,scarcely granting him time to sigh.

Joe was pestered out of his calm and

dignified attitude. He twisted in his chair,where many a confounded and beset soulhad writhed before him, and ran hisfingers through his long hair, disturbing itinto fantastic disorder. His breath camethrough his open lips, his shoulderssagged wearily, his long back was bent ashe drooped forward, whipping his faggedmind to alertness, guarding every wordnow, weighing every answer a deliberatewhile. Sweat drenched his face anddampened the thick wisps of hair. Hescooped the welling moisture from hisforehead with his crooked finger and flungit to the floor with a rustic trick of thefields.

Sam Lucas gave him no respite.Moment by moment he pressed the pantingrace harder, faster; moment by moment he

grew more exacting, imperative andpressing in his demands for unhesitatingreplies. While he harassed and urged thesweating victim, the prosecutor’s eyesnarrowed, his thin lips pressed hardagainst his teeth. The moment wasapproaching for the final assault, for thefierce delivery of the last, invincible dart.

The people felt it coming, and pantedwith the acute pleasures of expectation;Hammer saw its hovering shadow, androse to his feet; Mrs. Newbolt sufferedunder the strain until she rocked from sideto side, unconscious of all and everybodybut herself and Joe, and groaned.

What were they going to do to Joe–whatwere they going to do?

Sam Lucas was hurling his questionsinto Joe’s face, faster and faster. His

voice was shaded now with the inflectionof accusation, now discredit; now it roseto the pitch of condemnation, now it sankto a hoarse whisper of horror as he dweltupon the scene in Isom Chase’s kitchen,the body of old Isom stretched in its ownblood upon the floor.

Joe seemed to stumble over his replies,to grope, to flounder. The agony of hissoul was in his face. And then, in amoment of tortured desperation he rosefrom his seat, tall, gaunt, disordered, andclasped his hand to his forehead as ifd r i v e n to the utmost bound of hisendurance and to the outer brink of hisresources.

The prosecutor paused with leveledfinger, while Joe, remembering himself,pushed his hair back from his brow like

one waking from a hot and troubled sleep,and resumed his seat. Then suddenly, infull volume of voice, the prosecutor flungat him the lance for which he had beenweakening Joe’s defenses through thoselong and torturing hours.

“Tell this jury what the ‘words’ werewhich you have testified passed betweenyou and Isom Chase after he made thethreat to kill you, and before he ran for thegun!”

Hammer bellowed forth an objection,which was quietly overruled. It served itspurpose in a way, even though it failed inits larger intent, for the prosecutor’sheadlong assault was checked by it, theforce of his blow broken.

Joe sat up as if cold water had beendashed over him. Instead of crushing him

entirely, and driving him to the last cornershrinking, beaten and spiritless, and nolonger capable of resistance, it seemed togive him a new grip on himself, to set hiscourage and defiance again on the fightingline.

The prosecuting attorney resentedHammer’s interference at the moment ofhis victory–as he believed it–and turned tohim with an ugly scowl. But Hammer wasimperturbable. He saw the advantage thathe had gained for Joe by his interposition,and that was more than he had expected.Only a moment ago Hammer had believedeverything lost.

Sam Lucas repeated the question. Joedrew himself up, cold and forbidding offront. He met the prosecutor eye to eye,challenge for challenge.

“I can’t tell you that, sir,” he replied.“The time has come when you must tell

it, your evasions and dodgings will notavail you any longer. What were thosewords between you and Isom Chase?”

“I’m sorry to have to refuse you–”began Joe.

“Answer–my–question!” ordered theprosecutor in loud voice, banging his handupon the table to accent its terror.

In the excitement of the moment peoplerose from their seats, women droppingthings which they had held in their laps,and clasping other loose articles ofapparel to their skirts as they stooduncouthly, like startled fowls poising forflight.

Joe folded his arms across his chest and

looked into the prosecutor’s inflamedface. He seemed to erect between himselfand his inquisitor in that simple movementan impenetrable shield, but he saidnothing. Hammer was up, objecting,making the most of the opportunity.Captain Taylor rapped on the panel of theold oak door; the crouching figures in thecrowd settled back to their seats withrustlings and sighs.

Sam Lucas turned to the judge, thewhiteness of deeper anger sweeping theflush of excitement from his face. Hisvoice trembled.

“I insist, your honor, that the witnessanswer my question!”

Hammer demanded that the courtinstruct his client regarding hisconstitutional privileges. Mrs. Newbolt

leaned forward and held out her hands indumb pleading toward her son, imploringhim to speak.

“If the matter which you arewithholding,” began the judge in formalspeech, “would tend to incriminate you,then you are acting within yourconstitutional rights in refusing to answer.If not, then you can be lodged in jail forcontempt of court, and held there until youanswer the question which the prosecutingattorney has asked you. Do you understandthis?”

“Yes, sir; I understand,” said Joe.“Then,” said the judge, “would it

incriminate you to reply to the prosecutingattorney’s question?”

A faint flush spread on Joe’s face as hereplied:

“No, Judge Maxwell, it wouldn’tincriminate me, sir.”

Free for the moment from his watchfulsword-play of eyes with the prosecutor,Joe had sought Alice’s face when hereplied to the judge. He was still holdingher eyes when the judge spoke again.

“Then you must answer the question, orstand in contempt of court,” said he.

Joe rose slowly to his feet. The sheriff,perhaps thinking that he designed making adash for liberty, or to throw himself out ofa window, rushed forward in official zeal.The judge, studying Joe’s face narrowly,waved the officer back. Joe lifted a handto his forehead in thoughtful gesture andstroked back his hair, standing thus instudious pose a little while. A thousandeyes were bent upon him; five hundred

palpitating brains were aching for therelief of his reply. Joe lifted his head andturned solemnly to the judge.

“I can’t answer the prosecutingattorney’s question, sir,” he said. “I’mready to be taken back to jail.”

The jurors had been leaning out of theirplaces to listen, the older ones with handscupped to their ears. Now they settledback with disappointed faces, some ofthem shaking their heads in depreciationof such stubbornness.

“You are making a point of honor ofit?” said the judge, sharply but notunkindly, looking over his glasses at theraw citadel of virtue which rose towerlikebefore him.

“If you will forgive me, sir, I have nomore to say,” said Joe, a flitting shadow,

as of pain, passing over his face.“Sit down,” said the judge.The prosecutor, all on fire from his

smothered attempt to uncover theinformation which he believed himself sonearly in possession of, started to saysomething, and Hammer got the firstsyllable of his objection out of his mouth,when the judge waved both of them down.He turned in his chair to Joe, who waswaiting calmly now the next event.

Judge Maxwell addressed him again.He pointed out to Joe that, since he hadtaken the witness-stand, he had thusprofessed his willingness to lay bare allhis knowledge of the tragedy, and that hisreservation was an indication ofinsincerity. The one way in which hecould have withheld information not of a

self-incriminating nature, was for him tohave kept off the stand. He showed Joethat one could not come forward undersuch circumstances and tell one side of astory, or a part of it, confessing at thesame time that certain pertinentinformation was reserved.

“No matter who it hurts, it is your dutynow to reveal the cause of your quarrelbetween yourself and Isom Chase thatnight, and to repeat, to the best of yourrecollection, the words which passedbetween you.”

He explained that, unless Joe shouldanswer the question, it was the one duty ofthe court to halt the trial there and sendhim to jail in contempt, and hold himthere, his case undecided, until he wouldanswer the question asked.

Joe bowed respectfully when the judgeconcluded, conveying in that manner thathe understood.

“If anything could be gained by it, sir,by anybody–except myself, perhaps–or ifit would bring Isom back to life, or makeanybody happier, I wouldn’t refuse aminute, sir,” said Joe. “What Mr. Lucasasks me to tell I’ve refused to tell before.I’ve refused to tell it for my own motherand Mr. Hammer and–others. I respect thelaw and this court, sir, as much as any manin this room, and it pains me to stand inthis position before you, sir.

“But I can’t talk about that. It wouldn’tchange what I’ve told about the way Isomwas killed. What I’ve told you is the truth.What passed between Isom and me beforehe took hold of the gun isn’t mine to tell.

That’s all there is to be said, JudgeMaxwell, sir.”

“You must answer the prosecutingattorney’s question,” said Judge Maxwellsternly. “No matter what motive of honoror fealty to the dead, or thought of sparingthe living, may lie behind yourconcealment of these facts, the law doesnot, cannot, take it into account. Your dutynow is to reply to all questions asked, andyou will be given another opportunity todo so. Proceed, Mr. Prosecutor.”

Hammer had given it up. He sat like aman collapsed, bending over his paperson the table, trying to make a front in hisdefeat before the public. The prosecutingattorney resumed the charge, framing hisattack in quick lunges. He was in a clinch,using the short-arm jab.

“After Isom Chase came into the roomyou had words?”

“We had some words,” replied Joeslowly, weary that this thing should haveto be gone over again.

“Were they loud and boisterous words,or were they low and subdued?”

“Well, Isom talked pretty loud when hewas mad,” said Joe.

“Loud enough for anybody upstairs tohear–loud enough to wake anybody asleepup there?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe coldly,resentful of this flanking subterfuge.

He must go through that turmoil of strainand suffering again, all because Morgan,the author of this evil thing, had lacked themanhood to come forward and admit his

misdeeds.The thoughts will travel many a

thousand miles while the tongue covers aninch; even while Joe answered he wasthinking of this. More crowded upon himas he waited the prosecutor’s nextquestion. Why should he suffer all thatpublic misjudgment and humiliation, allthat pain and twisting of the conscience onMorgan’s account? What would it avail inthe end? Perhaps Ollie would proveunworthy his sacrifice for her, as shealready had proved ungrateful. Even thenthe echo of her testimony against him wasin his ears.

Why should he hold out faithfully forher, in the hope that Morgan would come–vain hope, fruitless dream! Morgan wouldnot come. He was safe, far away from

there, having his laugh over the muddlethat he had made of their lives.

“I will ask you again–what were thewords that passed between you and IsomChase that night?”

Joe heard the question dimly. His mindwas on Morgan and the white road of themoonlit night when he drove away. No,Morgan would not come.

“Will you answer my question?”demanded the prosecutor.

Joe turned to him with a start. “Sir?”said he.

The prosecutor repeated it, and stoodleaning forward for the answer, his handson the table. Joe bent his head as ifthinking it over.

And there lay the white road in the

moonlight, and the click of buggy wheelsover gravel was in his ears, as he knew itmust have sounded when Morgan droveaway, easy in his loose conscience, afterhis loose way. Why should he sacrificethe promise of his young life by meeklyallowing them to fasten the shadow of thisdread tragedy upon him, for whichMorgan alone was to blame?

It was unfair–it was cruelly unjust! Thethought of it was stifling the breath in hisnostrils, it was pressing the blood out ofhis heart! They were waiting for theanswer, and why should he not speak?What profit was there in silence when itwould be so unjustly interpreted?

As Ollie had been thoughtless of Isom,so she might be thoughtless of him, andsee in him only a foolish, weak instrument

to use to her own advantage. Why shouldhe seal his lips for Ollie, go to thegallows for her, perhaps, and leave theblight of that shameful end upon his nameforever?

He looked up. His mind had made thatswift summing up while the prosecutor’swords were echoing in the room. Theywere waiting for his answer. Should hespeak?

Mrs. Newbolt had risen. There weretears on her old, worn cheeks, a yearningin her eyes that smote him with anaccusing pang. He had brought that sorrowupon her, he had left her to suffer under itwhen a word would have cleared it away;when a word–a word for which theywaited now–would make her dun dayinstantly bright. Ollie weighed against his

mother; Ollie, the tainted, the unclean.His eyes found Ollie’s as he coupled

her name with his mother’s in his mind.She was shrinking against her mother’sshoulder–she had a mother, too–pale andafraid.

Mrs. Newbolt stretched out her hands.The scars of her toilsome years were uponthem; the distortion of the labor she hadwrought for him in his helpless infancywas set upon their joints. He was placinghis liberty and his life in jeopardy forOllie, and his going would leave motherwithout a stay, after her sacrifice of youthand hope and strength for him.

Why should he be called upon to do thisthing–why, why?

The question was a wild cry within hisbreast, lunging like a wolf in a leash to

burst his lips. His mother drew a stepnearer, unstayed by the sheriff, uncheckedby the judge. She spread her poor hands insupplication; the tears coursed down herbrown old cheeks.

“Oh, my son, my son–my little son!” shesaid.

He saw her dimly now, for tearsanswered her tears. All was silent in thatroom, the silence of the forest before thehurricane grasps it and bends it, and thelightnings reave its limbs.

“Mother,” said he chokingly, “I–I don’tknow what to do!”

“Tell it all, Joe!” she pleaded. “Oh, tellit all–tell it all!”

Her voice was little louder than awhisper, yet it was heard by every mother

in that room. It struck down into theirhearts with a sharp, riving stab ofsympathy, which nothing but sobs wouldrelieve.

Men clamped their teeth and gazedstraight ahead at the moving scene,unashamed of the tears which rolledacross their cheeks and threaded downtheir beards; the prosecutor, leaning on hishands, bent forward and waited.

Joe’s mind was in a tornado. Thedébris of past resolutions was flung high,and swirled and dashed in a wild tumult.There was nothing tangible in hisreasoning, nothing plain in his sight. Amist was before his eyes, a fog was overhis reason. Only there was mother, withthose soul-born tears upon her face. Itseemed to him then that his first and his

most sacred duty was to her.The seconds were as hours. The low

moaning of women sounded in the room.Somebody moved a foot, scraping it inrude dissonance across the floor. A girl’svoice broke out in sudden sobbing, whichwas as quickly stifled, with sharp catchingof the breath.

Judge Maxwell moved in his chair,turning slowly toward the witness, andsilence fell.

They were waiting; they were strainingagainst his doubts and his weakeningresolution of past days, with theconcentration of half a thousand minds.

A moment of joy is a drop of honey onthe tongue; a moment of pain is bittererthan any essence that Ignatius everdistilled from his evil bean. The one is as

transitory as a smile; the other as lingeringas a broken bone.

Joe had hung in the balance but a matterof seconds, but it seemed to him a day.Now he lifted his slim, white hand andcovered his eyes. They were waiting forthe word out there, those uplifted, eagerfaces; the judge waited, the jury waited,mother waited. They were wringing itfrom him, and honor’s voice was dim inits counsel now, and far away.

They were pressing it out of his heart.The law demanded it, justice demanded it,said the judge. Duty to mother demandedit, and the call of all that lay in life andliberty. But for one cool breath ofsympathy before he yielded–for one gleamof an eye that understood!

He dropped his hand at his side, and

cast about him in hungry appeal. Justicedemanded it, and the law. But it would beignoble to yield, even though Morgancame the next hour and cleared the stainaway.

Joe opened his lips, but they were dry,and no sound issued. He must speak, orhis heart would burst. He moistened hislips with his hot tongue. They weredemanding his answer with a thousandburning eyes.

“Tell it, Joe–tell it all!” pleaded hismother, reaching out as if to take his hand.

Joe’s lips parted, and his voice cameout of them, strained and shaken, andhoarse, like the voice of an old and hoaryman.

“Judge Maxwell, your honor––”

“No, no! Don’t tell it, Joe!”The words sounded like a warning call

to one about to leap to destruction. Theybroke the tenseness of that moment like thenoise of a shot. It was a woman’s voice,rich and full in the cadence of youth;eager, quick, and strong.

Mrs. Newbolt turned sharply, her facesuddenly clouded, as if to administer arebuke; the prosecutor wheeled about andpeered into the room with a scowl. JudgeMaxwell rapped commandingly, a frownon his face.

And Joe Newbolt drew a long, freebreath, while relief moved over histroubled face like a waking wind at dawn.He leaned back in his chair, taking anotherlong breath, as if life had just been grantedhim at a moment when hope seemed gone.

The effect of that sudden warning hadbeen stunning. For a few seconds theprincipals in the dramatic picture heldtheir poses, as if standing for the camera.And then the lowering tempest in JudgeMaxwell’s face broke.

“Mr. Sheriff, find out who that was andbring him or her forward!” hecommanded.

There was no need for the sheriff tosearch on Joe’s behalf. Quick as a bolt hiseyes had found her, and doubt wasconsumed in the glance which passedbetween them. Now he knew all that hehad struggled to know of everything. Firstof all, there stood the justification of hislong endurance. He had been right. Shehad understood, and her opinion was validagainst the world.

Even as the judge was speaking, AlicePrice rose.

“It was I, sir,” she confessed, no shamein her manner, no contrition in her voice.

But the ladies in the court-room wereshocked for her, as ladies the world overare shocked when one of their sisters doesan unaccountably human thing. They madetheir feelings public by scandalizedaspirations, suppressed oh-h-hs, anddeprecative shakings of the heads.

The male portion of the audience wasmoved in another direction. Their faceswere blank with stunned surprise, withlittle gleams of admiration moving a forestof whiskers here and there whose ownersdid not know who the speaker was.

But to everybody who knew AlicePrice the thing was unaccountable. It was

worse than interrupting the preacher in themiddle of a prayer, and the last thing thatAlice Price, with all her breeding, bloodand education would have been expectedto do. That was what came of levelingoneself to the plane of common peopleand “pore” folks, and visiting them in jail,they said to one another through theirwide-stretched eyes.

Alice went forward and stood beforethe railing. The prosecuting attorney drewout a chair and offered it to Mrs. Newbolt,who sat, staring at Alice with no manknew what in her heart. Her face was astrange index of disappointment, surprise,and vexation. She said nothing, andHammer, glowing with the dawning ofhope of something that he could not welldefine, squared around and gave Alice a

large, fat smile.Judge Maxwell regarded her with more

surprise than severity, it appeared. Headjusted his glasses, bowed his neck tolook over them, frowned, and cleared histhroat. And poor old Colonel Price,overwhelmed entirely by this untowardbreach of his daughter’s, stood besideCaptain Taylor shaking his old white headas if he was undone forever.

“I am surprised at this demonstration,Miss Price,” said the judge. “Coming fromone of your standing in this community, itis doubly shocking, for your position insociety should be, of itself, a guarantee ofyour loyalty to the establishedorganization of order. It should be yourendeavor to uphold rather than defeat, theends of justice.

“The defendant at the bar has the benefitof counsel, who is competent, we believe,to advise him. Your admonition wasaltogether out of place. I am pained andhumiliated for you, Miss Price.

“This breach is one which could not,ordinarily, be passed over simply with areprimand. But, allowing for theimpetuosity of youth, and the emotion ofthe moment, the court will excuse you withthis. Similar outbreaks must be guardedagainst, and any further demonstration willbe dealt with severely. Gentlemen,proceed with the case.”

Alice stood through the judge’s lectureunflinchingly. Her face was pale, for sherealized the enormity of her transgression,but there was neither fear nor regret in herheart. She met the judge’s eyes with

honest courage, and bowed her head inacknowledgment of his leniency when hedismissed her.

From her seat she smiled, faintly abovethe tremor of her breast, to Joe. She wasnot ashamed of what she had done, shehad no defense to make for her words.Love is its own justification, it wants noadvocate to plead for it before the bar ofestablished usage. Its statutes have neededno revision since the beginning, they willstand unchanged until the end.

The prosecuting attorney had seen hiscastle fall, demolished and beyond hopeof repair, before a charge from the softlips of a simple girl. Long and hard as hehad labored to build it up, and encompassJoe within it, it was in ruins now, and hehad no heart to set his hand to the task of

raising it again that day. He asked for anadjournment to morning, which the wearyjudge granted readily.

People moved out of the room with lesshaste and noise than usual, for the wonder,and the puzzle, of what they had heard andseen was over them.

What was the aim of that girl in shuttingthat big, gangling, raw-boned boy’s mouthjust when he was opening it to speak, andto speak the very words which they hadsat there patiently for days to hear? Whatwas he to Alice Price, and what did sheknow of the secret which he had beenkeeping shut behind his stubborn lips allthat time? That was what they wanted toknow, and that was what troubled thembecause they could not make it out at all.

Colonel Price made his way forward

against the outpouring stream to Alice. Headjusted her cloak around her shoulders,and whispered to her. She was very palestill, but her eyes were fearless and bright,and they followed Joe Newbolt with atender caress as the sheriff led him out, hishandcuffs in his pocket, the prisoner’slong arms swinging free.

Ollie and her mother were standingnear Colonel Price and Alice, waiting forthem to move along and open the passageto the aisle. As Alice turned from lookingafter Joe, the eyes of the young womenmet, and again Ollie felt the cold sternquestion which Alice seemed to ask her,and to insist with unsparing hardness thatshe answer.

A little way along Alice turned herhead and held Ollie’s eyes with her own

again. As plain as words they said to theyoung widow who cringed at her floridmother’s side:

“You slinking, miserable, tremblingcoward, I can see right down to the bottomof your heart!”

Joe returned to his cell with new vigorin his step, new warmth in his breast, anda new hope in his jaded soul. There wasno doubt now, no groping for a sustaininghand. Alice had understood him, andAlice alone, when all the world assailedhim for his secret, and would have torn itfrom his lips in shame. She had given himthe sympathy, for the lack of which hemust have fallen; the support, for the wantof which he must have been lost.

For a trying moment that afternoon hehad forgotten, almost, that he was a

gentleman, and under a gentleman’sobligation. There had been so muchuncertainty, and fear, and so many cloudeddays. But a man had no excuse, hecontended in his new strength, even underthe direst pressure, to lose sight of the factthat he was a gentleman. Morgan had donethat. Morgan had not come. But perhapsMorgan was not a gentleman at all. Thatwould account for a great deal,everything, in fact.

There would be a way out withoutMorgan now. Since Alice understood,there would be shown a way. He shouldnot perish on account of Morgan, and eventhough he never came it would not mattergreatly, now that Alice understood.

He was serene, peaceful, andunworried, as he had not been for one

moment since the inquest. The point ofdaylight had come again into his darkperspective; it was growing and gleamingwith the promise and cheer of a star.

Colonel Price had no word of censurefor his daughter as they held their wayhomeward, and no word of comment onher extraordinary and immodest–according to the colonel’s view–conductfell from his lips until they were free fromthe crowd. Then the colonel:

“Well, Alice?”“Yes, Father.”“Why did you do it–why didn’t you let

him tell it, child? They’ll hang him now, Itell you, they’ll hang that boy as sure assundown! And he’s no more guilty of thatold man’s death than I am.”

“No, he isn’t,” said she.“Then why didn’t you let him talk,

Alice? What do you know?”“I don’t know anything–anything that

would be evidence,” she replied. “Buthe’s been a man all through this cruel trial,and I’d rather see him die a man than livea coward!”

“They’ll hang that boy, Alice,” said thecolonel, shaking his head sadly. “Nothingshort of a miracle can save him now.”

“No, they’ll never do that,” said she, inquiet faith.

The colonel looked at her with animpatient frown.

“What’s to save him, child?” he asked.“I don’t know,” she admitted,

thoughtfully. Then she proceeded, with an

earnestness that was almost passionate: “Itisn’t for himself that he’s keeping silent–I’m not afraid for him on account of whatthey wanted to make him tell! Can’t yousee that, Father, don’t you understand?”

“No,” said the colonel, striking thepavement sharply with his stick, “I’ll beswitched if I do! But I know this badbusiness has taken hold of you, Alice, andchanged you around until you’re nothinglike the girl I used to have.

“It’s too melancholy and sordid for youto be mixed up in. I don’t like it. We’vedone what we can for the boy, and if hewants to be stubborn and run his neck intothe noose on account of some fool thing oranother that he thinks nobody’s got a rightto know, I don’t see where you’re calledon to shove him along on his road. And

that’s what this thing that you’ve donetoday amounts to, as far as I can see.”

“I’m sorry that you’re displeased withme, Father,” said she, but with preciouslittle indication of humility in her voice,“but I’d do the same thing over againtomorrow. Joe didn’t want to tell it. Whathe needed just then was a friend.”

That night after supper, when ColonelPrice sat in the library gazing into thecoals, Alice came in softly and put herarm about his shoulders, nestling her headagainst his, her cheek warm against histemple.

“You think I’m a bold, brazen creature,Father, I’m afraid,” she said.

“The farthest thing from it in thisworld,” said he. “I’ve been thinking overit, and I know that you were right. It’s

inscrutable to me, Alice; I lack that God-given intuition that a woman has for suchthings. But I know that you were right, andtime and events will justify you.”

“You remember that both Mr. Hammerand Mr. Lucas asked Joe and Mrs. Chasea good deal about a book-agent boarder,Curtis Morgan?” said she.

“Only in the way of incidentalquestioning,” he said. “Why?”

“Don’t you remember him? He was thattall, fair man who sold us the History ofthe World, wasn’t he?”

“Why, it is the same name,” said thecolonel. “He was a man with a quick eyeand a most curious jumble of fragmentaryknowledge on many subjects, from rosesto rattlesnakes. Yes, I remember thefellow very well, since you speak of him.”

“Yes. And he had little fair curlsgrowing close to his eyes,” said she. “It’sthe same man, I’m certain of that.”

“Why, what difference does it make?”asked he.

“Not any–in particular–I suppose,” shesighed.

The colonel stroked her hair.“Well, Alice, you’re taking this thing

too much at heart, anyhow,” he said.Later that night, long after Joe Newbolt

had wearied himself in pacing up anddown his cell, with the glow of his newhope growing brighter as his legs grewheavier, Alice sat by her window, gazingwith fixed eyes into the dark.

On her lips there was a name and amessage, which she sent out from her heart

with all the dynamic intensity of herstrong, young being. A name and amessage; and she sped them from her lipsinto the night, to roam the world like asearching wind.

CHAPTER XIXTHE SHADOW OF A DREAM

Judge Little was moving aboutmysteriously. It was said that he had foundtrack of Isom’s heir, and that the countywas to have its second great sensationsoon.

Judge Little did not confirm this report,but, like the middling-good politician thathe was, he entered no denial. As long asthe public is uncertain either way, itssuspense is more exquisite, the pleasure ofthe final revelation is more sweet.

Riding home from the trial on the daythat Joe made his appearance on thewitness-stand, Sol Greening fell in with

the judge and, with his nose primed tofollow the scent of any new gossip, Solworked his way into the matter of the will.

“Well, I hear you’ve got track of Isom’sboy at last, Judge?” said he, pulling upclose beside the judge’s mount, so thesound of the horses’ feet sucking loosefrom the clay of the muddy road would notcheat him out of a word.

Judge Little rode a low, yellow horse,commonly called a “buckskin” in thatcountry. He had come to town unprovidedwith a rubber coat, and his long blackgarment of ordinary wear was damp fromthe blowing mists which presaged thecoming rain. In order to save the skirts ofit, in which the precious and mysteriouspockets were, the judge had gathered themup about his waist, as an old woman

gathers her skirts on wash-day. He sat inthe saddle, holding them that way with onehand, while he handled the reins with theother.

“All things are possible,” returned thejudge, his tight old mouth screwed up afterthe words, as if more stood in the doorand required the utmost vigilance toprevent them popping forth.

Sol admitted that all things were indeedpossible, although he had his doubts aboutthe probability of a great many he couldname. But he was wise enough to knowthat one must agree with a man if onedesires to get into his warm favor, and itwas his purpose on that ride to milk JudgeLittle of whatever information tickling hisvanity, as an ant tickles an aphis, wouldcause him to yield.

“Well, he’s got a right smart propertywaitin’ him when he comes,” said Sol,feeling important and comfortable just totalk of all that Isom left.

“A considerable,” agreed the judge.“Say forty or fifty thousand worth,

heh?”“Nearer seventy or eighty, the way

land’s advancing in this county,”corrected the judge.

Sol whistled his amazement. There wasno word in his vocabulary as eloquent asthat.

“Well, all I got to say is that if it wasme he left it to, it wouldn’t take nosearchin’ to find me,” he said. “Is hemarried?”

“Very likely he is married,” said the

judge, with that portentous repression andcaution behind his words which somepeople are able to use with suchmysterious effect.

“Shades of catnip!” said Sol.They rode on a little way in silence, Sol

being quite exhausted on account of hisconsuming surprise over what he believedhimself to be finding out. Presently hereturned to his prying, and asked:

“Can Ollie come in for her dower rightsin case the court lets Isom’s will stand?”

“That is a question,” replied the judge,deliberating at his pause and sucking inhis cheeks, “which will have to bedecided.”

“Does he favor Isom any?” asked Sol.“Who?” queried the judge.

“Isom’s boy.”“There doubtless is some resemblance–

it is only natural that there should be aresemblance between father and son,”nodded the judge. “But as for myself, Icannot say.”

“You ain’t seen him, heh?” said Sol,eyeing him sharply.

“Not exactly,” allowed the judge.“Land o’ Moab!” said Sol.They rode on another eighty rods

without a word between them.“Got his picture, I reckon?” asked Sol

at last, sounding the judge’s face all thewhile with his eager eyes.

“I turn off here,” said the judge. “I’mtakin’ the short cut over the ford andthrough Miller’s place. Looks like the rain

would thicken.”He gave Sol good day, and turned off

into a brush-grown road which plungedinto the woods.

Sol went on his way, stirred bycomfortable emotions. What a story hemeant to spread next day at the county-seat; what a piece of news he was going tobe the source of, indeed!

Of course, Sol had no knowledge ofwhat was going forward at the county farmthat very afternoon, even the very hourwhen Joe Newbolt was sweating blood onthe witness stand, If he had known, it isnot likely that he would have waited untilmorning to spread the tale abroad.

This is what it was.Ollie’s lawyer was there in

consultation with Uncle John Owensregarding Isom’s will. Consultation is theword, for it had come to that felicitouspass between them. Uncle John couldcommunicate his thoughts freely to hisfellow-beings again, and receive theirsintelligently.

All this had been wrought not by amiracle, but by the systematic preparationof the attorney, who was determined tosound the secret which lay locked in thatsilent mind. If Isom had a son when thatwill was made a generation back, UncleJohn Owens was the man who knew it,and the only living man.

In pursuit of this mystery, the lawyerhad caused to be printed many little stripsof cardboard in the language of the blind.These covered all the ground that he

desired to explore, from preliminaries toclimax, with every pertinent questionwhich his fertile mind could shape, andevery answer which he felt was due toUncle John to satisfy his curiosity andinform him fully of what had transpired.

The attorney had been waiting for UncleJohn to become proficient enough in hisnew reading to proceed without difficulty.He had provided the patriarch with a largeslate, which gave him comfortable roomfor his big characters. Several days beforethat which the lawyer had set for theexploration of the mystery of IsomChase’s heir, they had reached a perfectfooting of understanding.

Uncle John was a new man. For severalweeks he had been making great progresswith the New Testament, printed in letters

for the blind, which had come on theattorney’s order speedily. It was animmense volume, as big as a barn-door, asUncle John facetiously wrote on his slate,and when he read it he sat at the tablelittered over with his interlocked rings ofwood, and his figures of beast and femaleangels or demons, which, not yetdetermined.

The sun had come out for him again, atthe clouded end of his life. It reached himthrough the points of his fingers, andwarmed him to the farthest spot, and itswelcome was the greater because his nighthad been long and its rising late.

On that afternoon memorable for JoeNewbolt, and all who gathered at thecourt-house to hear him, Uncle Johnlearned of the death of Isom Chase. The

manner of his death was not revealed tohim in the printed slips of board, andUncle John did not ask, very likelyaccepting it as an event which comes toall men, and for which he, himself, hadlong been prepared.

After that fact had been imparted to theblind preacher, the lawyer placed underhis eager fingers a slip which read:

“Did you ever witness Isom Chase’swill?”

Uncle John took his slate and wrote:“Yes.”“When?”“Thirty or forty years ago,” wrote

Uncle John–what was a decade more orless to him? “When he joined the Order.”

Uncle John wrote this with his face

bright in the joy of being able to holdintelligent communication once more.

More questioning brought out theinformation that it was a rule of the secretbrotherhood which Isom had joined inthose far days, for each candidate forinitiation to make his will before theadministration of the rites.

“What a sturdy old goat that must havebeen!” thought the lawyer.

“Do you remember to whom Isom lefthis property in that will?” read thepasteboard under the old man’s hands.

Uncle John smiled, reminiscently, andnodded.

“To his son,” he wrote. “Isom was thename.”

“Do you know when and where that son

was born?”Uncle John’s smile was broader, and of

purely humorous cast, as he bent over theslate and began to write carefully, insmaller hand than usual, as if he had agreat deal to say.

“He never was born,” he wrote, “not upto the time that I lost the world. Isom wasa man of Belial all his days that I knewhim. He was set on a son from hiswedding day.

“The last time I saw him I joked himabout that will, and told him he wouldhave to change it. He said no, it wouldstand that way. He said he would get a sonyet. Abraham was a hundred when Isaacwas born, he reminded me. Did Isom gethim?”

“No,” was the word that Uncle John’s

fingers found. He shook his head, sadly.“He worked and saved for him all his

life,” the old man wrote. “He set his hopeof that son above the Lord.”

Uncle John was given to understand theimportance of his information, and that hemight be called upon to give it over againin court.

He was greatly pleased with theprospect of publicly displaying his newaccomplishment. The lawyer gave him aprinted good-bye, shook him by the handwarmly, and left him poring over hisponderous book, his dumb lips moving ashis fingers spelled out the words.

They were near the end and the quietingof all this flurry that had risen over theproperty of old Isom Chase, said thelawyer to himself as he rode back to town

to acquaint his client with her goodfortune. There was nothing in the way ofher succession to the property now. Theprobate court would, without question ordoubt, throw out that ridiculous documentthrough which old Judge Little hoped togrease his long wallet.

With Isom’s will would disappear fromthe public notice the one testimony of hisonly tender sentiment, his only humansoftness; a sentiment and a softness whichhad been born of a desire and fostered bya dream.

Strange that the hard old man shouldhave held to that dream so stubbornly andso long, striving to gain for it, hoarding toenrich it, growing bitterer for its longcoming, year by year. And at last he hadgone out in a flash, leaving this one

speaking piece of evidence of feeling andtenderness behind.

Perhaps Isom Chase would have beendifferent, reflected the lawyer, if fate hadyielded him his desire and given him ason; perhaps it would have softened hishand and mellowed his heart in hisdealings with those whom he touched;perhaps it would have lifted him abovethe narrow strivings which had atrophiedhis virtues, and let the sunlight into thedark places of his soul.

So communing with himself, he arrivedin town. The people were coming out ofthe court-house, the lowering gray cloudswere settling mistily. But it was a clearingday for his client; he hastened on to tellher of the turn fortune had made in herbehalf.

CHAPTER XX“THE PENALTY IS DEATH!”

When court convened the followingmorning for the last act in the prolongeddrama of Joe Newbolt’s trial, the roomwas crowded even beyond the congestionof the previous day.

People felt that Sam Lucas was notthrough with the accused lad yet; theywanted to be present for the final andcomplete crucifixion. It was generallybelieved that, under the strain of Lucas’sbombardment, Joe would break down thatday.

The interference of Alice Price,unwarranted and beyond reason, the

public said, had given the accused arespite, but nothing more. Whatevermistaken notion she had in doing it wasbeyond them, for it was inconceivable thatshe could be wiser than another, anddiscover virtues in the accused that olderand wiser heads had overlooked. Well,after the rebuke that Judge Maxwell hadgiven her, she wouldn’t meddle againsoon. It was more than anybody expectedto see her in court again. No, indeed, theysaid; that would just about settle her.

Such a fine girl, too, and such a blow toher father. It was a piece of forwardnessthat went beyond the imagination ofanybody in the town. Could it be thatAlice Price had become tainted withsocialism or woman’s rights, or any ofthose wild theories which roared around

the wide world outside Shelbyville andcreated such commotion and unrest?Maybe some of those German doctrineshad got into her head, such as that youngProfessor Gobel, whom the regentsdischarged from the college faculty lastwinter, used to teach.

It was too bad; nearly everybodyregretted it, for it took a girl a long time tolive down a thing like that in Shelbyville.But the greatest shock and disappointmentof all was, although nobody would admitit, that she had shut Joe’s mouth on thevery thing that the public ear was itchingto hear. She had cheated the public of itsdue, and taken the food out of its mouthwhen it was ravenous. That was pastforgiveness.

Dark conjectures were hatched,

therefore, and scandalous hints were settraveling. Mothers said, well, they thankedtheir stars that she hadn’t married theirsons; and fathers philosophized that younever could tell how a filly would turn outtill you put the saddle on her and tried heron the road. And the public sighed andgasped and shook its head, and wascomfortably shocked and satisfyinglyscandalized.

The sheriff brought the prisoner intocourt that morning with free hands. Joe’sface seemed almost beatific in its exaltedserenity as he saluted his waiting motherwith a smile. To those who had seen thegray pallor of his strained face yesterday,it appeared as if he had cast his skinduring the night, and with it hisharassments and haunting fears, and had

come out this morning as fresh andunscarred as a child.

Joe stood for a moment running his eyesswiftly over the room. When they foundthe face they sought a warm light shot intothem as if he had turned up the wick of hissoul. She was not so near the front as onthe day before, yet she was close enoughfor eye to speak to eye.

People marked the exchange ofunspoken salutations between them, andnudged each other, and whispered: “Thereshe is!” They wondered how she wasgoing to cut up today, and whether itwould not end for her by getting herselfsent to jail, along with that scatter-feathered young crow whom she seemedto have taken into her heart.

Ollie was present, although Joe had not

expected to see her, he knew not why. Shewas sitting in the first row of benches, sonear him he could have reached over andtaken her hand. He bowed to her; she gavehim a sickly smile, which looked on herpale face like a dim breaking of sunthrough wintry clouds.

To the great surprise and greaterdisappointment of the public in attendanceupon the trial, Sam Lucas announced,when court opened, that the state wouldnot proceed with the cross-examination ofthe defendant. Hammer rose with that andstated that the defense rested. He had nomore witnesses to call.

Hammer wore a hopeful look over hisfeatures that morning, a reflection,perhaps, of his client’s unworried attitude.He had not been successful in his attempt

to interview Alice Price, although he hadvisited her home the night before. ColonelPrice had received him with the air of onewho stoops to contact with an inferior,and assured him that he was delegated byMiss Price–which was true–to tell Mr.Hammer that she knew nothing favorableto his client’s cause; that her caution in hismoment of stress had nothing behind it butthe unaccountable impulse of a young andsympathetic girl.

Hammer accepted that explanation witha large corner of reservation in his mind.He knew that she had visited the jail, andit was his opinion that his client had takenher behind the door of his confidence,which he had closed to his attorney. AlicePrice knew something, she must knowsomething, Hammer said. On that belief he

based his intention of a motion for a newtrial in case of conviction. He wouldadvance the contention that new evidencehad been discovered; he would then getAlice Price into a corner by herselfsomewhere and make her tell all sheknew.

That was why Hammer smiled and feltquite easy, and turned over in his mind themoving speech that he had prepared forthe jury. He was glad of the opportunitywhich that great gathering presented. Itwas a plowed field waiting the grain ofHammer’s future prosperity.

Hammer kept turning his eyes towardAlice Price, where she sat in the middleof the court-room beside the colonel. Hehad marked an air of uneasiness, apaleness as of suppressed anxiety in the

girl’s face. Now and then he saw her looktoward the door where Captain Taylorstood guard, in his G. A. R. uniform today,as if it were a gala occasion anddemanded decorations.

For whom could she be straining andwatching? Hammer wondered. Ah, nodoubt about it, that girl knew a great dealmore of the inner-working of his client’smind than he did. But she couldn’t keepher secret. He’d get it out of her afterfiling his motion for a new trial–alreadyhe was looking ahead to conviction,feeling the weakness of his case–and verylikely turn the sensation of a generationloose in Shelbyville when he called her tothe witness-stand. That was the manner ofHammer’s speculations as he watched herturning her eyes toward the door.

Ollie sat beside her mother, strangelydowncast for all the brightening of heraffairs. Joe had passed through the fireand come out true, although he might havefaltered and betrayed her if it had not beenfor the sharp warning of Alice Price, castto him like a rope to a drowning man. LikeHammer, like a thousand others, shewondered why Alice had uttered thatwarning. What did she know? What didshe suspect? It was certain, aboveeverything else, that she knew Joe wasguiltless. She knew that he was notmaintaining silence on his own account.

How did she know? Had Joe told her?Ollie struggled with the doubt andperplexity of it, and the fear which laydeep in her being made her long to cringethere, and shield her face as from fire. She

could not do that, any more than she hadsucceeded in her desire to remain awayfrom court that morning. There was noneed for her there, her testimony was in,they were through with her. Yet she couldnot stay away. She must be there for thefinal word, for the last sight of Joe’sprison-white face.

She must whip herself to sit there asboldly as innocence and cheat the publicinto accepting the blanched cheek of fearfor the wearing strain of sorrow; she mustsit there until the end. Then she could riseup and go her way, no matter how it turnedout for Joe. She could leave there with herguilty secret in her heart and the shame ofher cowardice burning like a smotheredcoal in her breast.

It would hurt to know that Joe had gone

to prison for her sake, even though he oncehad stepped into the doorway of herfreedom and cut off her light. Theknowledge that Alice Price loved him,and that Joe loved her, for she had readthe secret in their burning eyes, wouldmake it doubly hard. She would becheating him of liberty and robbing him oflove. Still, they would be no more thaneven, at that, said she, with a recurringsweep of bitterness. Had Joe not deniedthem both to her? All of this she turned inher mind as she sat waiting for court toopen that somber morning.

The rain in yesterday’s threat had come;it was streaking the windows gray, and thesound of the wind was in the trees, wavingtheir bare limbs as in fantastic griefagainst the dull clouds. There was no

comfort in youth and health and prettinessof face and form; no pride in possessionof lands and money, when a hot andtortuous thing like conscience was lyingso ill-concealed behind the thin wall ofher breast.

She thought bitterly of Curtis Morgan,who had failed her so completely. Neveragain in the march of her years would sheneed the support of his hand andcomforting affection as she needed it then.But he had gone away and forgotten, like acareless hunter who leaves his uncoveredfire after him to spring in the wind and goraging with destructive curse through theforest. He had struck the spark to warmhimself a night in its pleasurable glow; thehands of ten thousand men could notquench its flame today.

Judge Maxwell had been conferringwith the lawyers in the case these fewminutes, setting a limit to their periods oforation before the jury, to which bothsides agreed after the usual protestations.The court-room was very quiet;expectancy sat upon the faces of all whowaited when Sam Lucas, prosecutingattorney, rose and began his address to thejury.

He began by calling attention to what hetermed the “peculiar atrocity of thiscrime,” and the circumstances surroundingit. He pointed out that there could havebeen no motive of revenge behind the act,for the evidence had shown, even thetestimony of the defendant himself hadshown, that the relations between Chaseand his bondman were friendly. Isom

Chase had been kind to him; he hadreposed his entire trust in him, and hadgone away to serve his country as ajuryman, leaving everything in his hands.

“And he returned from that duty,gentlemen,” said he, “to meet death at thetreacherous hands of the man whom he hadtrusted, there upon his own threshold.

“When Isom Chase was found there byhis neighbor, Sol Greening, gentlemen,this bag of money was clasped to hislifeless breast. Where did it come from?What was Isom Chase doing with it thereat that hour of the night? This defendanthas testified that he does not know. DidIsom Chase carry it with him when heentered the house? Not likely.

“You have heard the testimony of thebankers of this city to the effect that he

carried no deposit with any of them. IsomChase had returned to his home that fatalnight from serving on a jury in this court-house. That duty held him there until pastten o’clock, as the records show. Wheredid that bag of gold come from? What wasit doing there? This defendant has swornthat he never saw it before, that he knowsnothing at all about it. Yet he admits that‘words’ passed between him and IsomChase that night.

“What those words were he has lockedup in the secret darkness of his guiltybreast. He has refused to tell you whatthey were, refused against the kindlycounsel of the court, the prayers of hisaged mother, the advice of his ownattorney, and of his best friends. JoeNewbolt has refused to repeat those

words to you, gentlemen of the jury, but Iwill tell you what the substance of themwas.”

The prosecutor made a dramatic pause;he flung his long, fair locks back from hisforehead; he leveled his finger at Joe as ifhe held a weapon aimed to shoot himthrough the heart.

Mrs. Newbolt looked at the prosecutorsearchingly. She could not understand whythe judge allowed him to say a thing likethat. Joe displayed no indication of theturmoil of his heart. But the light wasfading out of his face, the gray mist of painwas sweeping over it again.

“Those words, gentlemen of the jury,”resumed the prosecutor, “were words ofaccusation from the lips of Isom Chasewhen he entered that door and saw this

man, his trusted servant, making awaywith that bag of money, the hoardedsavings of Isom Chase through many anindustrious year.

“I tell you, gentlemen of the jury, thatthis defendant, afraid of the consequencesof his act when he found himselfdiscovered in the theft, and wascompelled to surrender the money to itslawful owner–I tell you then, in that evilmoment of passion and disappointment,this defendant snatched that rifle from thewall and shot honest, hardworking oldIsom Chase down like a dog!”

“No, no!” cried Mrs. Newbolt, castingout her hands in passionate denial. “Joedidn’t do it!”

“Your honor,” began the prosecutor,turning to the court with an expression of

injury in his voice which was almosttearful, “am I to be interrupted––”

“Madam, you must not speak again,”admonished the judge. “Mr. Sheriff, seethat the order is obeyed.”

The sheriff leaned over.“Ma’am, I’ll have to put you out of here

if you do that agin,” said he.Joe placed his hand on his mother’s

shoulder and whispered to her. Shenodded, as if in obedience to his wish, butshe sat straight and alert, her dark eyesglowing with anger as she looked at theprosecutor.

The prosecutor was composing himselfto proceed.

“This defendant had robbed old IsomChase of his hoarded gold, gentlemen of

the jury, and that was not all. I tell you,gentlemen, Joe Newbolt had robbed thattrusting old man of more than his gold. Hehad robbed him of his sacred honor!”

Hammer entered vociferous objections.Nothing to maintain this charge had beenproved by the state, said he. He insistedthat the jury be instructed to disregardwhat had been said, and the prosecutoradmonished by the court to confinehimself to the evidence.

The court ruled accordingly.“There has been ample evidence on this

point,” contended the prosecutor. “Theconspiracy of silence entered intobetween this defendant and the widow ofIsom Chase–entered into and maintainedthroughout this trial–is sufficient to brandthem guilty of this charge before the

world. More; when Sol Greening’s wifearrived a few minutes after the shooting,Mrs. Chase was fully dressed, in a dress,gentlemen of the jury, that it would havetaken her longer to put on––”

Merely surmises, said Hammer. Ifsurmises were to be admitted before thatcourt and that jury, said he, he couldsurmise his client out of there in twominutes. But the court was of the opinionthat the evidence warranted the prosecutorthere. He was allowed to proceed.

“Ollie Chase could not have dressedherself that way in those few interveningminutes. She had made her preparationslong before that tragic hour; she was readyand waiting–waiting for what?

“Gentlemen, I will tell you. JoeNewbolt had discovered the hiding-place

of his employer’s money. He had stolen it,and was preparing to depart in secrecy inthe dead of night; and I tell you, gentlemenof the jury, he was not going alone!”

“Oh, what a scandalous lie!” said Mrs.Newbolt in a horrified voice which, low-pitched and groaning that it was carried tothe farthest corner of that big, solemnroom.

The outburst caused a little movementin the room, attended by considerablenoise and some shifting of feet. Somelaughed, for there are some to laugheverywhere at the most sincere emotionsof the human breast. The judge rapped fororder. A flush of anger mounted to hisusually passive face; he turned to thesheriff with a gesture of command.

“Remove that woman from the room,

Mr. Sheriff, and retain her in custody!”said he.

The sheriff came forward hastily andtook Mrs. Newbolt by the arm. She stoodat his touch and stretched out her hands tothe judge.

“I didn’t mean to say it out loud, JudgeMaxwell, but I thought it so hard, I reckon,sir, that it got away. Anybody that knowsmy Joe––”

“Come on, ma’am,” the sheriff ordered.Joe was on his feet. The sheriff’s

special deputy put his hands on theprisoner’s shoulders and tried to forcehim down into his seat. The deputy was alittle man, sandy, freckled, and frail, andhis efforts, ludicrously eager, threw thecourt-room into a fit of unseemly laughter.The little man might as well have

attempted to bend one of the oak columnswhich supported the court-house portico.

Judge Maxwell was properly angrynow. He rapped loudly, and threatenedpenalties for contempt. When the mirthquieted, which it did with a suddennessalmost tragic, Joe spoke. “I wish toapologize to you for mother’s words, sir,”said he, addressing the judge, inclining hishead slightly to the prosecuting attorneyafterward, as if to include him, uponsecond thought. “She was moved out ofher calm and dignity by the statement ofMr. Lucas, sir, and I give you my word ofhonor that she’ll say no more. I’d like tohave her here by me, sir, if you’d grant methat favor. You can understand, sir, that aman needs a friend at his side in an hourlike this.”

Judge Maxwell’s face was losing itsredness of wrath; the hard lines weremelting out of it. He pondered a moment,looking with gathered brows at Joe. Thelittle deputy had given over his struggle,and now stood with one hand twisted inthe back of Joe’s coat. The sheriff kept hishold on Mrs. Newbolt’s arm. She liftedher contrite face to the judge, tears in hereyes.

“Very well,” said the judge, “the courtwill accept your apology, and hold youresponsible for her future behavior.Madam, resume your seat, and do notinterrupt the prosecuting attorney again.”

Mrs. Newbolt justified Joe’s plea bysitting quietly while the prosecutorcontinued. But her interruption had actedlike an explosion in the train of his ideas;

he was so much disconcerted by it that hefinished rather tamely, reserving his force,as people understood, for his closingspeech.

Hammer rose in consequence, andplunged into the effort of his life. Hepainted the character of Isom Chase inhorrible guise; he pointed out hisnarrowness, his wickedness, his cruelty,his quickness to lift his hand. He wept andhe sobbed, and splashed tears all aroundhim.

It was one of the most satisfying piecesof public oratory ever heard inShelbyville, from the standpoint ofsentiment, and the view of the unschooled.But as a legal and logical argument it wasas foolish and futile as Hammer’s own fattears. He kept it up for an hour, and he

might have gone on for another if his tearshad not given out. Without tears,Hammer’s eloquence dwindled and hisoratory dried.

Mrs. Newbolt blessed him in her heart,and the irresponsible and vacillatingpublic wiped its cheeks clean of its tearsand settled down to have its emotionswarped the other way. Everybody saidthat Hammer had done well. He had madea fine effort, it showed what they hadcontended for all along, that Hammer hadit naturally in him, and was bound to landin congress yet.

When the prosecutor resumed for thelast word he seemed to be in a vicioustemper. He seemed to be prompted bymotives of revenge, rather than justice. Ifhe had been a near relative of the

deceased, under the obligation of exactinglife for life with his own hands, he couldnot have shown more vindictive personalresentment against the accused. Hereverted to Joe’s reservation in histestimony.

“There is no question in my mind,gentlemen of the jury,” said he, “that thesilence behind which this defendant hidesis the silence of guilt, and that silencebrands him blacker than any confessionthat his tongue could make.

“‘Words passed between us,’ and ‘itwas between him and me.’ That,gentlemen of the jury, is the explanationthis defendant gives, the only, the weak,the obviously dishonest explanation, thathe ever has offered, or that the kindlyadmonishment of this court could draw

from his lips. Guilt sits on his face; everyline of his base countenance is aconfession; every brutal snarl from hisreluctant tongue is testimony of his evilheart. He was a thief, and, when he wascaught, he murdered. ‘Out of his ownmouth he has uttered his condemnation,’and there is but one penalty fitting thishideous crime–the penalty of death!

“Never before has the fair name of ourcounty been stained by such an atrociouscrime; never before has there been such aconspiracy between the guilty to defeat theends of justice in this moral and respectedcommunity. I call upon you, gentlemen ofthe jury, for the safety of our householdsand the sanctity of our hearths, to bring inyour verdict of guilty under the indictment.

“It is a solemn and awful thing to stand

here in the presence of the Almighty andask the life of one of his creatures, madeby Him in His own image and endowed byHim with reason and superiority above allelse that moves on the earth or in thewaters under it. But this man, JoeNewbolt, has debased that image andabused that reason and superiority whichraises him above the beasts of the field.He has murdered a defenseless old man;he has, by that act and deed, forfeited hisright to life and liberty under the law.”

The prosecutor made one of hiseffective pauses. There was the stillnessof midnight in the crowded court-room.The sound of dashing rain was loud on thewindow-panes, the hoarse voice of thegray old elm which combed the wind withits high-flung branches, was like the

distant groan of the sea.In that aching silence Ollie Chase

turned suddenly, as if she had heardsomeone call her name. She started, herwhite face grew whiter. But nobodyseemed conscious of her presence, exceptthe prosecutor, who wheeled upon her andleveled his accusing finger at her whereshe sat.

There was the bearing of sudden andreckless impulse in his act. He surely hadnot meditated that bold challenge of onewho had passed under his merciless hand,and was now, according to all acceptedprocedure, beyond his reach and hisconcern. But Sam Lucas did that unusualthing. He stood pointing at her, his jawtrembling as if the intensity of his passionhad palsied his tongue.

“Gentlemen of the jury, what part thiswoman played in that dark night’s workthe world may never know,” said he. “Butthe world is not blind, and its judgmentsare usually justified by time. This woman,Ollie Chase, and this defendant haveconspired to hold silence between them,in what hope, to what unholy end, Godalone knows. But who will believe theweak and improbable story this womanhas told on the witness-stand? Who is soblind that he cannot see the stain of herinfidelity and the ghastly blight of thatmidnight shadow upon her quaking soul?”

He turned from her abruptly. Hammerpartly rose, as if to enter an objection. Heseemed to reconsider it, and sat down.Ollie shrank against her mother’sshoulders, trembling. The older woman,

fierce as a dragon in the sudden focus ofthe crowd’s attention and eyes, fixed inone shifting sweep from the prosecutingattorney to her daughter, put her arm aboutOllie and comforted her with whisperedwords.

The prosecutor proceeded, solemnly:“I tell you, gentlemen, that these two

people, Ollie Chase and Joseph Newbolt,alone in that house that night, alone in thathouse for two days before this tragedydarkened it, before the blood of gray oldIsom Chase ran down upon its threshold,these two conspired in their guilt to hidethe truth.

“If this woman would open her lips, ifthis woman would break the seal of thisguilty compact and speak, the mystery ofthis case would dissolve, and the heroic

romance which this defendant is trying toput over the squalid facts of his guiltwould turn out only a sordid story ofmidnight lust and robbery. If consciencewould trouble this woman to speak,gentlemen of the jury–but she has noconscience, and she has no heart!”

He turned again to Ollie, savagely; hermother covered her with her arm, as if toprotect her from a blow.

“There she cowers in her guilty silence,in what hope God alone knows, but if shewould speak––”

“I will speak!” Ollie cried.

CHAPTER XXIOLLIE SPEAKS

Ollie’s voice, low and steady in earnestdetermination, broke the current of hisdenunciation as a knife severs a strainingcord. The suddenness of her declarationalmost made the prosecutor reel. She wassitting up, straight and outwardly calm,pushing her cloak and other detachedbelongings away from her with anunconscious movement of disencumberingherself for some desperate leap.

“I’ll tell everything–if you’ll let me–now,” said she, rising to her feet.

She was white and cold, but steady, andsternly resolute. The prosecutor had not

expected that; his challenge had been onlya spectacular play for effect. Her offer tospeak left him mentally groping behindhimself for a support. It would have beendifferent if he had been certain of what shedesired to say. As she stood before himthere, bloodless, and in such calm ofoutward aspect that it was almosthysterical, he did not know whether shewas friend or foe.

Joe had not expected it; the hundreds ofspectators had not looked for that, andHammer was as much surprised as aponderous, barber-minded man could be.Yet he was the first, of all of them there,to get his wits in hand. The prosecutor hadchallenged her, and, he argued, what shehad to say must be in justification of bothherself and Joe. He stood up quickly, and

demanded that Ollie Chase be put underoath and brought to the witness-stand.

Ollie’s mother had hold of her hand,looking up into her face in greatconsternation, begging her to sit down andkeep still. In general, people werestanding, and Uncle Posen Spratt wasworming the big end of his steer-horntrumpet between shoulders of men andheadgear of women to hear what he couldnot see.

Judge Maxwell commanded order. Theprosecuting attorney began to protestagainst the fulfilment of the very thing that,with so much feeling and earnestness, hehad demanded but a minute before.

“Considering this late hour in theproceedings, your honor––” he began.

Judge Maxwell silenced him with a

stern and reproving look.“It is never too late for justice, Mr.

Prosecutor,” said he. “Let that womancome forward and be sworn.”

Hammer went eagerly to the assistanceof Ollie, opening the little gate in therailing for her officiously, putting his palmunder her elbow in his sustaining fashion.The clerk administered the oath; Olliedropped her hand wearily at her side.

“I lied the other day,” said she, as onesurrendering at the end of a hopelessdefense, “and I’m tired of hiding the truthany more.”

Joe Newbolt was moved by a strangefeeling of mingled thankfulness and regret.Tears had started to his eyes, and werecoursing down his face, unheeded andunchecked. The torture of the past days

and weeks, the challenge of his honor, thedoubt of his sincerity; the rough assaults ofthe prosecuting attorney, the palpableunfriendliness of the people–none of thesethings ever had drawn from him a tear. Butthis simple act of justice on the part ofOllie Chase moved the deep waters of hissoul.

His mother had taken his hand betweenher rough palms, and was chafing it, as ifto call back its warmth and life. She wasnot looking at her son, for her faith had notdeparted from him for one moment, andwould not have diminished if they hadcondemned him under the accusation. Hereyes were on Ollie’s face, her lips weremurmuring beneath her breath:

“Thank the Lord for His justice andmercy! Thank the Lord, thank the Lord!”

Ollie had settled in the witness-chairagain, in the midst of her wide-skirtedmourning habit, as on that other day. JoeNewbolt prayed in his heart for themitigation of public censure, and forstrength to sustain her in her hour ofsacrifice.

That Ollie had come forward to savehim–unasked, unexpected–was like thecomfort of a cloak against the wintrywind. The public believed that she wasgoing to “own up” to it now, and to clinchthe case against Joe. Some of them beganto make mental calculations on thecapacity of the jail yard, and to lay plansfor securing passes to the hanging.

Hammer stepped forward to questionthe witness, and the prosecuting attorneysat down, alert and ready to interpose in

case things should start the wrong way. Hehad lost sight of justice completely, afterthe fixed habit of his kind, in his eagernessto advance his own prospects by securingthe conviction of the accused.

Ollie sat facing Judge Maxwell, whohad turned in his swivel-chair; moved outof his bearing of studious concentration,which was his usual characteristic on thebench.

“Now, Mrs. Chase, tell your story inyour own way, and take your own time forit,” said Hammer, kindly patronizing.

“I don’t want Joe to suffer for me,” shesaid, letting her sad eyes rest on him for amoment. “What he kept back wasn’t forhis own sake. It was for mine.”

“Yes; go on, Mrs. Chase,” saidHammer as she hesitated there.

“Joe didn’t shoot Isom. That happenedjust the way he’s said. I know all about it,for I was there. Joe didn’t know anythingabout that money. I’ll tell you about that,too.”

“Now, your honor,” began theprosecutor complainingly, “it seems to methat the time and place for evidence of thisnature has gone by. This witness hastestified already, and to an entirelydifferent set of facts. I don’t know whatinfluences have been at work to induce herto frame up a new story, but––”

“Your zeal is commendable, Mr.Prosecutor,” said the judge, “but it mustnot be allowed to obscure the humanrights at hazard in this case. Let thewitness proceed.”

Ollie shuddered like one entering cold

water as she let her eyes take a flight outover the crowd. Perhaps she sawsomething in it that appalled her, orperhaps she realized only then that shewas about to expose the nakedness of hersoul before the world.

“Go ahead, Mrs. Chase,” promptedHammer. “You say you know about thatsack of money?”

“I was taking it away with me,” saidshe, drawing a long breath and expelling itwith an audible sigh.

She seemed very tired, and she lookedmost hopeless, pitiable, and forlorn; stillthere was no wavering from the task thatshe had set for herself, no shrinking fromits pain. “I was going to meet CurtisMorgan, the book-agent man that you’veasked me about before. We intended to run

off to the city together. Joe knew about it;he stopped me that night.”

She paused again, picking at her fingersnervously.

“You say that Joe stopped you–”Hammer began. She cut him off, taking upher suspended narrative without spirit, asone resumes a burden.

“Yes, but let me tell you first.” Shelooked frankly into Judge Maxwell’s eyes.

“Address the jury, Mrs. Chase,”admonished Hammer. She turned andlooked steadily into the foreman’sbearded face.

“There never was a thing out of the waybetween me and Joe. Joe never made loveto me; he never kissed me, he neverseemed to want to. When Curtis Morgan

came to board with us I was about readyto die, I was so tired and lonesome andstarved for a kind word.

“Isom was a hard man–harder thananybody knows that never worked for him.He worked me like I was only a plow or ahoe, without any feeling or any heart.Morgan and me–Mr. Morgan, he–well, wefell in love. We didn’t act right, and Joefound it out. That was the day that Mr.Morgan and I planned to run awaytogether. He was coming back for me thatnight.”

“You say that you and Morgan didn’tact right,” said Hammer, not satisfied witha statement that might leave the jurymenthe labor of conjecture. “Do you mean tosay that there were improper relationsbetween you? that you were, in a word,

unfaithful to your husband, Isom Chase?”Ollie’s pale face grew scarlet; she hung

her head.“Yes,” she answered, in voice shamed

and low.Her mother, shocked and astounded by

this public revelation, sat as if crouchingin the place where Ollie had left her.Judge Maxwell nodded encouragingly tothe woman who was making her openconfession.

“Go on,” said he.His eyes shifted from her to Joe

Newbolt, who was looking at Ollie withevery evidence of acute suffering andsympathy in his face. The judge studiedhim intently; Joe, his attention centered onOllie, was insensible to the scrutiny.

Ollie told how she and Morgan hadmade their plans in the orchard thatafternoon, and how she had gone to thehouse and prepared to carry out thecompact that night, not knowing that Joehad overheard them and sent Morganaway. She had a most attentive andappreciative audience. She spoke in a lowvoice, her face turned toward the jury,according to Hammer’s directions. Hecould not afford to have them lose oneword of that belated evidence.

“I knew where Isom hid his money,”said she, “and that night when I thoughtJoe was asleep I took up the loose boardin the closet of the room where Isom and Islept and took out that little sack. Therewas another one like it, but I only took myshare. I’d worked for it, and starved and

suffered, and it was mine. I didn’tconsider that I was robbing him.”

“You were not,” Hammer assured her.“A wife cannot rob her husband, Mrs.Chase. And then what did you do?”

“I went downstairs with that money inmy hand and laid it on the kitchen tablewhile I fixed my hat. It was dark in thekitchen, and when I was ready to go tomeet Mr. Morgan in the place agreed onbetween us, I struck a match to find myway to the door without bumpin’ into achair or something and making a noise thatwould wake up Joe.

“I didn’t know he was already up andwatching for me to start. He was at thedoor when I opened it, and he told me tolight the lamp. I wouldn’t do it. I didn’twant him to see me all dressed and ready

to leave, and I wanted to try to slip thatsack of money off the table before he sawit, too. He came in; I guess he put his hatdown on the table in the dark, and it fellon top of the sack.

“When he lit the lamp in a minute youcouldn’t have told there was anythingunder the hat unless you stood in a certainplace, where it showed a little under thebrim. Joe told me he knew all aboutMorgan and me, and that he’d sent himaway. He said it was wrong for me toleave Isom; he said that Isom was betterthan Morgan, bad as he was.

“I flared up and got mad at Joe, but hewas gentle and kind, and talked to me andshowed me where I was wrong. I’d kindof tried to make love to Joe a little beforethat,” she confessed, her face flushing

hotly again, “before Mr. Morgan came,that was. I’ll tell you this so you’ll knowthat there was nothing out of the waybetween me and Joe.

“Joe didn’t seem to understand suchthings. He was nothing but a boy till thenight Isom was killed. He didn’t take meup on it like Morgan did. I know it waswrong in me; but Isom drove me to it, andI’ve suffered for it–more than I can evermake you understand.”

She appealed to the judge in her mannerof saying that; appealed as for theabsolution which she had earned by acruel penance. He nodded kindly, his facevery grave.

“Yes, Mrs. Chase,” said Hammer. “Andthen what did you do next?”

“Well, while Joe was persuading me to

go back to bed I put my arms around hisneck. I wanted to smooth it over with him,so he’d go to bed first and I could take themoney and put it back, for one thing; andbecause I really was sorry for what I’ddone, and was ashamed of it, and feltlonesome and kicked out, and like nobodydidn’t care.

“Isom came in and saw us standingthere that way, with my hands on Joe’sshoulders, and he rushed up and said: ‘I’llkill you!’ He said we was standing therehugging each other, and that we’ddisgraced him; but that wasn’t so. It wasall my fault, but Joe didn’t tell him that.”

“And what did Joe tell him, Mrs.Chase?” asked Hammer, aglow with thevictory which he felt to be already in hishand. He looked with gloating triumph at

the prosecuting attorney, who sat at thetable twirling a pencil in his fingers, anddid not lift his eyes.

“Joe told Isom he was making amistake, and then Isom ripped and sworeand threatened to kill us both. He lookedaround for something to do it with, and hesaw that sack of money under Joe’s hat.He jumped for the table and grabbed it,and then he made for the gun. I told Joe tostop him, and Joe tried. But he was toolate. The rest of it happened just like Joe’salready told you.”

Ollie’s head drooped forward wearily,and her hands lay passively in her lap. Itseemed that she considered the storyconcluded, but Hammer was not of thatmind.

“After Isom fell–after the gun went off

and Isom fell–what did you and Joe do?”he asked.

“We heard somebody coming in aminute. We didn’t know who it could be,but I was afraid. I knew if it got out on meabout my start to run off with Morgan, andall the rest of it, I’d be ruined anddisgraced forever.

“Joe knew it too, better than I did. Ididn’t have to tell him, and I never evenhinted for him to do what he did. I nevereven thought of that. I asked him whatwe’d do, and he told me to go upstairs andleave him to do the talking. I went. I wascoward enough to go and leave him tobear the blame. When Joe lied at theinquest to save me, I backed him up in it,and I stuck to it up till now. Maybe I wasa little mad at him for coming between me

and Mr. Morgan, but that was just a streak.That’s the only lie Joe’s told, and you cansee he never would have told that to savehimself. I don’t want to see him suffer anymore for me.”

Ollie concluded her recital in the samelow, dragging and spiritless voice inwhich she had begun it. Consciencewhipped her through, but it could not makeher unafraid. Hammer turned to theprosecutor with questioning eyes. Lucasannounced that he did not desire to cross-examine the witness, and the judgedismissed her.

Ollie went back to her mother. Nodemonstration accompanied her passing,but a great sigh sounded over the room asthe tenseness of the listening strainrelaxed, and the fulness of satisfaction

came in its place.Mrs. Newbolt still clung to her son’s

hand. She nodded at the prosecutingattorney with glowing eyes, as if gloryingover him in the moment of his defeat.Alice Price smiled joyously, and leanedback from her posture of concentration.The colonel whispered to her, bringing thepalms of his hands together in silent butexpressive applause. The prosecutingattorney stood.

“Your honor–” he began, but JudgeMaxwell, lifting his head from thereflecting pose into which he had fallenwhen Ollie left the stand, silenced himwith an impatient gesture.

“One moment, Mr. Prosecutor,” said he.The prosecutor flushed, and sat down in

ruffled dignity.

“I merely wanted to make a motion fordismissal,” said he, sarcastically, as if itwas only the merest incidental in the day’sproceedings.

“That is not the procedure,” said thejudge. “The state owes it to this defendantto absolve him before the public of theobloquy of this unfounded and cruelaccusation.”

“Vindication is what we demand, yourhonor,” said Hammer grandly;“vindication before the world!”

He spread his arms wide, as if theworld stood before him, fat and big ofgirth like himself, and he meant toembrace it with the next breath.

“You shall have it, Mr. Hammer,” saidthe judge. He turned to the jury.“Gentlemen of the jury, this case has come

to a sudden and unexpected end. Thestate’s case, prosecuted with such worthyenergy and honorable intention, hascollapsed. Your one duty now, gentlemen,is to return a verdict of not guilty. Will itbe necessary for you to retire to the juryroom?”

The jurymen had been exchangingglances. Now the foreman rose, tall andsolemn, with beard upon his breast.

“Your honor, it will not be necessaryfor the jury to retire,” said he. “We areready to return our verdict.”

According to the form, the foremanwrote out the verdict on the blankprovided by statute; he stood with hisfellows while the clerk of the court read italoud:

“We, the jury, find the defendant not

guilty.”The judge looked down at Joe, who had

turned to his mother, smiling through histears.

“You are free, God bless you!” said he.When a judge says so much more upon

the bench than precedent, form, andcustom prescribe for him to say; when heputs down the hard mask of the law anddiscovers his human face behind it, andhis human heart moving his warm, humanblood; when a judge on the bench doesthat, what can be expected of theunsanctified mob in front of him?

It was said by many that Captain Taylorled the applause himself, but there wereothers who claimed that distinction forColonel Price. No matter.

While the house did not rise as oneman–for in every house there are oldjoints and young ones, which do notunlimber with the same degree of alacrity,no matter what the incitement–it got to itsfeet in surprising order, with a greattossing of arms and waving of hats andcoats. In the midst of this glad turmoilstood Uncle Posen Spratt, head andshoulders above the crowd, mounted on abench, his steer’s horn ear-trumpet to hiswhiskered lips, like an Israelitish priest,blowing his famous fox-hound blast,which had been heard five miles on a stillautumn night.

Less than half an hour before, the publicwould have attended Joe Newbolt’shanging with all the pleasurable andsatisfactory thrills which men draw from

such melancholy events. Now it wasclamoring to lift him to its shoulders andbear him in triumph through the town.

Judge Maxwell smiled, and adjournedcourt, which order nobody but his clerkheard, and let them have their noisy way.When the people saw him come downfrom the bench they quieted, notunderstanding his purpose; and when hereached out his hand to Joe, who rose tomeet him, silence settled over the house.Judge Maxwell put his arm around Joe’sshoulder in fatherly way while he shookhands with Mrs. Newbolt. What he said,nobody but those within the bar heard, buthe gave Joe’s back an expressive slap ofapproval as he turned to the prosecutingattorney.

People rushed forward with the

suddenness of water released, to shakehands with Joe when they understood thatthe court was in adjournment. Theycrowded inside the rail, almostoverwhelming him, exclaiming in loudterms of admiration, addressing himfamiliarly, to his excessiveembarrassment, pressing upon him theirassurances that they knew, all the time,that he didn’t do it, and that he wouldcome out of it with head and tail both up,as he had come through.

Men who would have passed himyesterday without a second thought, andwho would no more have given theirhands to him on the footing of equality–unless they had chanced to be running foroffice–than they would have thrust theminto the fire, now stood there smiling and

jostling and waiting their turns to reachhim, all of them chattering and mouthingand nodding heads until one would havethought that each of them was a prophet,and had predicted this very thing.

The old generals, colonels, majors, andcaptains–that was the lowest rank inShelbyville–and the noncommissionedsubstantial first citizens of the county,were shaking hands among themselves,and nodding and smiling, full of the finefeeling of that moment. It was a triumph ofchivalry, they said; they had witnessed therenaissance of the old spirit, the passingof which, and the dying out and dwindlingof it in the rising generation, they had solong and lamentably deplored.

There, before their eyes, they had seenthis uncouth grub transformed into a

glorious and noble thing, and the onlydiscord in the miraculous harmony of itwas the deep-lying regret that it was not ason of Shelbyville who had thus provedhimself a man. And then the colonels andothers broke off their self-felicitation tojoin the forward mob in the front of theroom, and press their congratulations uponJoe.

Joe, embarrassed and awkward, tried tobe genial, but hardly succeeded in beingcivil, for his heart was not with them inwhat he felt to be nothing but a cheapemotion. He was looking over their heads,and peering between their shoulders,watching the progress of a little redfeather in a Highland bonnet, which wasmaking its way toward him through theconfusion like a bold pennant upon the

crest of battle. Joe pushed through thewedging mass of people around, and wentto the bar to meet her.

In the time of his distress, these whonow clamored around him withprofessions of friendliness had not held upa hand to sustain him, nor given him onegood word to shore up his sinking soul.But there was one who had known andunderstood; one whose faith had held himup to the heights of honor, and his soulstood in his eyes to greet her as he waitedfor her to come. He did not know what hewould say when hand touched hand, but hefelt that he could fall down upon his kneesas a subject sinks before a queen.

Behind him he heard his mother’svoice, thanking the people who offeredtheir congratulations. It was a great day

for her when the foremost citizens of thecounty came forward, their hats in theirhands, to pay their respects to her Joe. Shefelt that he was rising up to his place atlast, and coming into his own.

Joe heard his mother’s voice, but it wassound to him now without words. Alicewas coming. She was now just a little waybeyond the reach of his arm, and herpresence filled the world.

The people had their quick eyes onAlice, also, and they fell apart to let herpass, the flame of a new expectation intheir keen faces. After yesterday’s strangeact, which seemed so prophetic of today’sclimax in the case, what was she going todo? Joe wondered in his heart with them;he trembled in his eagerness to know.

She was now at the last row of benches,

not five feet distant from him, where shestood a second, while she looked up intohis face and smiled, lifting her hand in alittle expressive gesture. Then she turnedaside to the place where Ollie Chase sat,shame-stricken and stunned, beside hermother.

The women who had been sitting nearOllie had withdrawn from her, as if shehad become unclean with her confession.And now, as Alice approached, Ollie’smother gave her a hard, resentful look, andput her arm about her daughter as if toprotect her from any physical indignitieswhich Alice might be bent on offering.

Ollie shrank against her mother, herhair bright above her somber garb, as if itwas the one spot in her where any of thesunshine of her past remained. Alice went

to her with determined directness. Shebent over her, and took her by the hand.

“Thank you! You’re the bravest womanin the world!” she said.

Ollie looked up, wonder and disbeliefstruggling against the pathetichopelessness in her eyes. Alice bentlower. She kissed the young widow’s paleforehead.

Joe was ashamed that he had forgottenOllie. He saw tears come into Ollie’seyes as she clung closer to Alice’s hand,and he heard the shocked gasping ofwomen, and the grunts of men, and thestirring murmur of surprise which shookthe crowd. He opened the little gate in therailing and went out.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,Ollie,” said he, kindly; “I could have got

on, somehow, without that.”“Both of you–” said Ollie, a sob

shaking her breath; “it was for both ofyou!”

There was a churchlike stillness aroundthem. Colonel Price had advanced, andnow stood near the little group, a look ofunderstanding in his kind old face. Olliemastered her sudden gust of weeping, andshook her disordered hair back from herforehead, a defiant light in her eyes.

“I don’t care now, I don’t care whatanybody says!” said she.

Her mother glanced around with the fireof battle in her eyes. In that look shedefied the public, and uttered her contemptfor its valuation and opinion. Alice Pricehad lifted her crushed and broken daughterup. She had taken her by the hand, and she

had kissed her, to show the world that shedid not hold her as one defiled. JudgeMaxwell and all of them had seen her doit. She had given Ollie absolution beforeall men.

Ollie drew her cloak around hershoulders and rose to her feet.

“Remember that; for both of you, forone as much as the other,” said she,looking into Alice’s eyes. “Come on,Mother; we’ll go home now.”

Ollie walked out of the court-room withher head up, looking the world in the face.In place of the mark of the beast on herforehead, she was carrying the coolbenediction of a virtuous kiss. Joe andAlice stood looking after her until shereached the door; even the most carelessthere waited her exit as if it was part of

some solemn ceremony. When she hadpassed out of sight beyond the door, thecrowd moved suddenly and noisily afterher. For the public, the show was over.

Alice looked up into Joe’s face. Therewas uncertainty in his eyes still, for hewas no wiser than those in theirgenerations before him who had failed toread a woman’s heart. Alice saw thatcloud hovering before the sun of hisfelicity. She lifted her hands and gavethem to him, as one restoring to its ownersomething that cannot be denied.

Face to face for a moment they stoodthus, hands clasped in hands. For them theworld was empty of prying eyes,wondering minds, impertinent faces. For amoment they were alone.

The jurors had come out of the box, and

were following the crowd. Hammer wasgathering up his books and papers, JudgeMaxwell and the prosecuting attorneywere talking with Mrs. Newbolt. Thesheriff was waiting near the bar, as if hehad some duty yet before him to discharge.A smile had come over Colonel Price’sface, where it spread like a benediction asJoe and Alice turned to enter the worldagain.

“I want to shake hands with you, Joe,”said the sheriff, “and wish you good luck.I always knowed you was as innercent asa child.”

Joe obliged him, and thanked him forhis expression, but there were things in thepast which were not so easily wiped fromthe memory–especially a chafed ringaround his left wrist, where the sheriff’s

iron had galled him when he had frettedagainst it during the tense moments ofthose past days.

Sam Lucas offered Joe his hand.“No hard feeling, Joe, I hope?” said he.“Well, not in particular–oh, well, you

were only doing your duty, as you saw it,”said Joe.

“You could have saved the county a lotof money, and yourself and your friends alot of trouble and anxiety, if you’d told usall about this thing at the beginning,”complained Lucas, with lingering severity.

“As for that–” began Colonel Price.“You knew it, Miss Price,” Lucas cut

in. “Why didn’t you make him tell?”“No,” said Alice, quietly, “I didn’t

know, Mr. Lucas. I only believed in him.

Besides that, there are some things thatyou can’t make a gentleman tell!”

“Just so,” said Judge Maxwell, comingdown from the bench with his books underhis arm.

“Bless your heart, honey,” said Mrs.Newbolt, touching Alice’s hair withgentle, almost reverent hand, “you knewhim better than his old mother did!”

Colonel Price bowed ceremoniously toMrs. Newbolt.

“I want you and Joe to come home withus for some refreshment,” said he, “afterwhich the boy and I must have a long, longtalk. Mr. Hammer, sir,” said he, givingthat astonished lawyer his hand, “I beg thehonor of shaking hands with a risinggentleman, sir!”

CHAPTER XXIIA SUMMONS OF THE

NIGHT

There was a voice of moaning abroad inthe night. It sounded as the rain sweptthrough the rocking trees and bent itsspears against Judge Maxwell’s studywindows; it sighed in his chimney like anold man turning the ashes of spent dreams.It was an unkind night for one to beabroad, for the rain seemed as penetratingas sorrow. Few passed upon the streetbeneath the judge’s windows where hisdim light glowed.

Now and then the sound of hoofs andwheels rose above the wail of the storm,

sharp for a moment as it passed, quicklydimmed, quickly lost. It was a night to bebeneath one’s own roof, beside one’s ownfire, feeling the thankfulness for such plaincomforts which one passes over in thesunny days.

Judge Maxwell had a fire of hickorywood in his chimney, and a tall, darkbottle on the small stand at his elbow. Onthe long table at his other hand stood hisshaded lamp, pouring its concentratedbeams upon his papers and books, leavingthe corners of the room in shadows. Thejudge sat with his glass in his hand,studying the fire.

All day, since the adjournment of court,the remarkable termination of anddisclosures in the case of State againstNewbolt had been flowing through his

mind; all day, all evening, the white,strong face of the defendant youth hadstood before his eyes. He could not turnfrom it, nor forget the appeal of thosegrave, gray eyes.

Never before, in his long and honorablelife, had the judge been moved by a caseas this had moved him. There was nothingin all his rich experience to equal it. In allhis reading––

“Hum-m-m,” said the judge,reflectively, remembering. He rose slowlyand went to the bookcase nearest the fire.He took down a leather-bound volume andreturned to his chair, where he sat with hislegs crossed, supporting the heavy bookupon his knee. Reflectively he turned thepages, reflectively he read, shaking hishead when he had done.

“No, it is not a parallel,” said he. “Thematter involved has only a remotesimilitude. I do not believe the annals ofjurisprudence contain another case tocompare with that of our own JoeNewbolt.”

The judge put the volume back in itsplace, pausing at the table as he returnedto his chair to turn down the flame of thelamp. It was too bright for the judge’smood; it was inharmonious with thepenitential night. Almost like a voice,strident and in discord above the sobbingmusic of an orchestra, thought the judge.The firelight was better for a mood suchas his.

One can see farther back by the softglow of wood coals, leaning over andlooking into them, than under the gleam of

the strongest lamp. Judge Maxwell had along vista behind him to review, and itseemed to him that night that it was apicture with more shadow than gleam.This day’s events had set him upon thetrain of retrospection, of moody thought.

He had seen that boy, Joe Newbolt,leap out of the obscurity of his life into theplace of heroes, as he would have had hisown son do, if he could have kept him byhis side and fashioned his life. But thatboy was gone; long years ago he had lefthim, and none had come after him to standin his place. His little, worn books, whichhe used to sprawl upon the floor and read,were treasured there on their sacred shelfbehind the bookcase glass. The light hadfailed out of the eyes which had foundwonders in them, more than thirty years

ago.The lad’s mother had followed him;

nobody remained to the judge now out ofthose days of his struggle and slow-mounting hope, save old Hiram, his negroman, a family servitor since the times ofslavery, and he was trembling on the limbto fall.

Yes, that was the way that he wouldhave had his own boy stand, true to a trust,faithful in his honor, even under the beamof the gallows-tree; stand as that lad JoeNewbolt had stood, unschooled though hewas in everything but that deep sense ofduty devolving on one born free. Suchnobility was the peculiar birthright of thetrue American.

Scarcely behind Joe Newbolt stood thathitherto weak woman, Ollie Chase. It

called for courage to do what she haddone. She had only to keep her peace, andhide whatever pity she felt and pain shesuffered on account of the lad who stoodready to sacrifice his life for her, toproceed upon her way clean in the eyes ofmen. She must have endured the tortures ofhidden fires through those weeks ofuncertainty and suspense, thought he.

Yes, Ollie Chase had her own nobility;the laurel was due her poor, smirchedbrow, just as much as it was to JoeNewbolt’s lofty forehead. Contritiondoubtless played its part in driving her toopen confession, and the pain ofconcealment must have been hard to bear.But there was an underlying nobility inthat woman’s heart which had urged heron stronger than all. It is a spark in the

breast of even the most debased, thoughtthe judge, which abnegation and sacrificeoften kindle into a beautiful flame.

And there was Alice Price, with herfine intuition and sublime faith. What awhite soul that strong young woman had,said he; what a beautiful and spotlessheart. In that kiss which she had stoopedto press on the young widow’s foreheadshe had wiped away the difference whichOllie’s sin had set between her and otherwomen. It was an act of generositywithout ostentation, which he doubtedwhether Alice Price herself was aware ofin its farthest significance. It was thespontaneous act of womanly sympathy andunconscious charity.

What Ollie Chase had said to them asthey stood before her, Judge Maxwell did

not know, but what was written in theiryoung faces as they turned from watchingher go, the whole world might have read–if it had been as watchful and wise as he.What a fitting mate she was for that younglion, Joe Newbolt, thought the judge; sucha mate, indeed, as he would have chosenfor his own son if God had seen fit to givehim that transcendent joy.

Judge Maxwell found himself greatlyconcerned about Joe Newbolt’s future. Hewondered what he would make of it if leftto go about it in his own way; what hewould make of it if properly armed andencouraged. He followed that speculationa long way down the future, buildingdimly, but pleasantly, in his dream.

A ring sounded at the front door.Judge Maxwell did not even withdraw

his eyes from the fire. Some lawyer overin one of the other two counties embracedin that circuit telegraphing to ask somefavor of delay, or favor of something else.To ask a favor, certainly; lawyers nevertelegraphed to confer favors. Old Hiram,dozing by the kitchen stove, would hear.

Presently old Hiram’s shuffling feetsounded along the hall outside JudgeMaxwell’s study door. The outer dooropened and closed. Old Hiram came intothe judge’s room, a candle in his hand.

“There’s a man wishin’ to see you,judge, sah,” he announced.

Judge Maxwell started from his reverie.In the minute that had passed between thering at the door and the entry of Hiram, hehad put the visitor out of his head.

“A gentleman to see me, Hiram? Who is

it?”“No, sah; I don’t think he’s ’zactly a

gentleman, sah. I don’t know who he is; henevah give me no card, sah, but he’smoughty sploshed and blustery lookin’.”

“Well–” the judge rose, halting hisspeech as if thinking of one thing andspeaking of another–“fetch him in here,Hiram.”

“He’s drippin’ and drappin’ like aleaky pail, sah,” said Hiram, shaking hiscottony old head.

“No matter; he’ll do no harm, Hiram.”Hiram brought the visitor in. The judge

advanced to meet him.The stranger’s rubber coat glistened in

the light, and the hat that he carried in hishand trickled a little stream on the carpet

as he crossed the room. Old Hiramlingered at the door, holding his candlealoft.

The stranger stopped midway betweenJudge Maxwell and the door, as ifuncertain of his welcome, or consciousjust at that moment of his drenched anddripping state. He was a tall man andsparely built, and his light-colored wethair lay in little ringlets against histemples. His mustache was short andstubby. His garments were splashed withmud, as if he had come a long distanceover rough roads. There was a haggardand harried look in the man’s eyes; heseemed at the highest pitch of nervoustension. His lips were set in a grim line,as if he struggled to hold something fromutterance. His eyes were wide and wild.

“Judge Maxwell,” he began, lookingaround him from side to side in quickstarts, “I must apologize to you for cominginto your house in this condition, and forthis late call. But I’m here on importantbusiness; I ask you to give me a fewminutes of your time alone.”

The judge nodded to Hiram, whoclosed the door after him.

“Take off that wet coat–give me yourhat, and sit here,” said the judge, pulling achair around to the fire.

The visitor drew off his rubbergarment.

“Thank you, sir,” said he. “My name isMorgan, and I’ve come over hell’shighway, as the man said, to get toShelbyville tonight.”

“Not Curtis Morgan?” said JudgeMaxwell, lifting his eyes in startledsurprise, staying the stream of liquor thathe was decanting into a glass.

“Yes. You’ve heard my name beforetonight, I see,” the visitor said.

“Just so,” replied the judge, in hisstudious way. “Drink this, unless you havescruples?”

“It looks to me like a life-preserver to adrowning man,” said Morgan, with aglimmer of his every-day facetiousness.He drained the glass; the judge motionedfor him to sit down. Morgan did so, andstretched his wet feet to the fire.

“I’ve got a story to tell you, JudgeMaxwell,” said he, again casting hisquick, almost fearful look around, “thatwill sound to you, maybe, like a wild-

eyed dream. But I want to tell you rightnow, it ain’t no dream–not by a millionmiles! I wish it was,” he added, with aserious twist of the head.

“Go on,” said the judge.“I’ve hurried here, Judge Maxwell, to

do what I can in the name of justice andhumanity,” Morgan said. “That boy, JoeNewbolt, on trial here before you for themurder of old man Chase, is innocent.That boy is telling the truth, Judge, and I’llstake my neck on that. I’ve got a story totell you that will clear up all he’s holdingback, and I’ll tell it, if I swing for it!”

Morgan was greatly agitated. Hestopped there, looking earnestly into thejudge’s face.

“Why have you waited so long?” askedthe judge, sternly.

Morgan leaned over, clutching at thejudge’s arm.

“Am I too late–is it over–have theyconvicted him?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s over,” nodded the judge,studying Morgan’s face narrowly.

“Merciful heavens!” said Morgan,springing to his feet, looking around forhis coat and hat. “We must stop this thingbefore it’s too late, Judge–I tell you wemust stop it! Isn’t there some way–havethey convicted Joe?”

“Sit down, Morgan, and calm yourself.Hold your feet out to the blaze and drythem,” the judge admonished, kindly.

“What’s happened?” asked Morgan,wildly, not heeding the command.

“You shall hear it all in time,”

promised the judge. “Sit down here andtell me what you’ve been doing all theseweeks. Where have you been?”

“Judge, I’ve been over in Saint Joeselling books,” said Morgan, “and I’ll tellyou the truth, Judge, I never intended tocome back here.” He turned and faced thejudge, leaning forward earnestly, his facewhite. He lowered his voice to a hoarsewhisper. “But I had to come back–I wassent back by–by a voice!”

“Just so,” nodded Judge Maxwell.“You may think it’s a pipe-dream,

Judge, but it ain’t. It’s the solemn truth, if Iever told it in my life. I intended to let JoeNewbolt go on and carry what he’dpicked up, and then when he was out ofthe way in the pen, or worse, maybe, Iintended to hunt Ollie up and marry her. I

didn’t want that business that JoeNewbolt’s been keeping back let out onher, don’t you see, Judge? It concerns herand me, Judge; it ain’t the kind of a story aman’s folks would want told around abouthis wife, you understand?”

The judge nodded.“All right,” said Morgan, wiping his

forehead, which was beaded with sweat,“Last night along about ten o’clock I wasin my room reading the account in thepaper of how Joe had refused on the standyesterday to tell anything, and how ayoung woman had stood up in the court-room and backed him up and encouragedhim in his stand. I was reading alongcomfortable and all right, when I seemedto hear somebody call me by my name.

“I tell you I seemed to hear it, for there

wasn’t a soul in that room but myself,Judge. But that voice seemed to sound asclose to my ear as if it come out of atelephone. And it was a woman’s voice,too, believe me or not, Judge!”

“Yes?” said the judge, encouragingly,still studying Morgan’s face, curiously.

“Yes, sir. She repeated my name,‘Curtis Morgan,’ just that way. And thenthat voice seemed to say to me, ‘Come toShelbyville; start now, start now!’

“Say, I got out of my chair, all in a coldsweat, for I thought it was a call, and Iwas slated to pass in my checks rightthere. I looked under everything, back ofeverything in that room, and opened thedoor and took a dive down the hall,thinkin’ maybe some swift guy was tryin’to put one over. Nobody there. As empty,

Judge, I tell you, as the pa’m of my hand!But it’s no stall about that voice. I heardit, as plain as I ever heard my mother callme, or the teacher speak to me in school.

“I stood there holding onto the back ofmy chair, my legs as weak under me as ifI’d stayed in swimmin’ too long. I didn’tthink anything about going to Shelbyville,or anywhere else, but hell, I guess, for aminute or two. I tell you, Judge, I thoughtit was a call!”

Morgan was sweating again in therecollection of that terrible experience.He wiped his face, and looked around theroom, listened as the rain splashed againstthe window, and the wind bent thebranches of the great trees beside thewall.

“Well?” said Judge Maxwell, leaning

forward in his turn, waiting for Morgan’snext word.

“I tell you, Judge, I kept hearing thatthing in my ear that way, every littlewhile, till I threw some things in my gripand started for the depot. There wasn’tany train out last night that’d fetch mewithin fifty miles of here. I went back tomy room and went to bed. But it didn’t letup on me. Off and on, all night, just aboutthe time I’d doze off a little, I’d seem tohear that voice. I went to the depot thismorning, and caught the eight o’clock trainout. I’d ’a’ made it in here at two thisafternoon if it hadn’t been for a washoutbetween here and the junction that put thetrains on this branch out of service.

“I took a rig and I started to drive over.I got caught in the rain and lost the road.

I’ve been miles out of my way, and usedup three horses, but I was bound to come.And I’m here to take my medicine.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Well, Morgan,I think it was the voice of conscience thatyou heard, but you’re no more to blamethan any of us, I suppose, because youfailed to recognize it. Few of us payenough attention to it to let it bother us thatway.”

“Believe me or not, it wasn’t any pipe-dream!” said Morgan, so earnestly that theflippancy of his slangy speech did notseem out of place. “It was a woman’svoice, but it wasn’t the voice of anywoman in this world!”

“It’s a strange experience,” said thejudge.

“You can call it that!” shuddered

Morgan, expressive of the inadequacy ofthe words. “Anyhow, I don’t want to hearit again, and I’m here to take my medicine,and go to the pen if I’ve got to, Judge.”

Judge Maxwell put out his hand,impatiently.

“Don’t try to make yourself out amartyr, Morgan,” said he. “You knew–andyou know–very well that you hadn’t doneanything for which you could be punished,at least not by a prison sentence.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Morgan,twisting his head argumentatively, as if toimply that there was more behind hisvillainy than the judge supposed, “but Ithought when a feller got to foolin’ withanother man’s wife––”

“Oh, pshaw!” cut in the judge. “You’rethinking of it as it should be, not as it is.

The thing that you’re guilty of, let me tellyou for your future guidance and peace, isonly a misdemeanor in this state, not afelony. In a case like this it ought to be acapital offense. You’ve shown that there’ssomething in you by coming back to takeyour medicine, as you say, and voice or novoice, Morgan, I’m going to give youcredit for that.”

“If the devil ever rode a man!” saidMorgan.

“No, it was far from that,” reproved thejudge.

“It got me goin’, Judge,” said Morgan,scaring up a little jerky laugh, “and it gotme goin’ right! It stuck to me till I got onthat train and headed for this town, and I’llhear the ring of it in my ear to my last–what’s that?”

Morgan started to his feet, pale andshaking.

“It was the wind,” said the judge.“Well, I’m here, anyhow, and I came

fast as I could,” said Morgan, appealingly.“Do you think it’ll stick to me, and keep itup?”

“Why should it?” said the judge.“You’ve done your duty, even thoughwhipped to it.”

“If the devil ever whipped a man!”breathed Morgan, “I’m that man.”

Judge Maxwell had doubted the man’ssanity at first, when he began to talk aboutthe voice. Now he only marveled at thisthing, so elusive of all human science toexplain, or human philosophy to define.He recalled an experience of a friend–one

who had been for many years courtstenographer–who, in a distant city, hadbeen impelled to seize his pencil on acertain night, and write a message whichhe seemed to hear plainly dictated into hisear by one in Shelbyville. As soon as thepost could carry a message to the manwhose voice the stenographer had heard,he was asked about the telepathiccommunication. He at once mailed to theman who had taken it down, more thantwo thousand miles away, the identicalmessage, word for word. It had been anexperiment, he said.

Perhaps something like that hadoccurred in Morgan’s case, or perhaps theman merely had dreamed, a recurringdream such as everybody has experienced,and the strong impression of his vision

had haunted him, and driven him to the act.And perhaps someone of vigorousintellect and strong will had commandedhim. Perhaps–no matter. It was done.

Morgan was there, and the record ofjustice in the case of state against Newboltwas about to be made final and complete.

“You say it’s all over, Judge,” spokeMorgan. “What did they do with Joe?”

“What happened in court today,” saidJudge Maxwell, rising to his feet, “youwould have heard if you had been there.But as you were not, it is not for me torelate. That is the privilege of another, asthe matter of your condemnation oracquittal is in other hands than mine.”

“I know I acted like a dog,” admittedMorgan, sincerely contrite, “both to Ollieand to Joe. But I’m here to take my

medicine, Judge. I thought a lot of thatlittle woman, and I’d ’a’ made a lady ofher, too. That was it. Judge; that was at thebottom of this whole business. Ollie and Iplanned to skip out together, and Joe puthis foot in the mess and upset it. That’swhat the fuss between him and old Isomwas over, you can put that down in yourbook, Judge. I’ve got it all lined out, and Ican tell you just––”

“Never mind; I think I understand.You’d have made a lady of her, wouldyou? But that was when she was clean,and unsuspected in the eyes of the world.How far would your heroism go, Morgan,if you met her in the street tonight,bespattered with public scorn, bedraggledwith public contempt, crushed by thediscovery of your mutual sin against that

old man, Isom Chase? Would you take herto your heart then, Morgan? Would you beman enough to step out into the storm ofscorn, and shoulder your part of the loadlike a man?”

“If I found her in the lowest ditch I’dtake her up, Judge, and I’d marry her–ifshe’d have me then!” said Morgan,earnestly. “When a man’s careless andfree, Judge, he sees things one way; whenhe comes up on a short rope like this, hesees them another.”

“You are right, Morgan,” said thejudge.

He walked the length of the room, handsclasped behind his back, his head bent inthought. When he came back to the fire hestood a little while before Morgan,looking at him with intent directness, like

a physician sounding for a baffling vagarywhich lies hidden in the brain.

There was a question in his face whichMorgan could not grasp. It gave him afeeling of impending trouble. He shifteduneasily in his chair.

“Stay here until I return,” commandedthe judge. “I shall not be long.”

“I’m here to take my medicine,”reiterated Morgan, weakly. “I wouldn’tleave if the road was open to me, Judge.”

Judge Maxwell went to the door,calling for Hiram. Hiram was not faraway. His candle was still burning; hecame bobbing along the hall with it heldhigh so he could look under it, after themanner of one who had been using candlesall his life.

“My overcoat, Hiram, and my neckshawl,” ordered the judge. He turned toMorgan, who was standing on the hearth.

“Wait for me, I’ll not be long away.”“It’s a blusterin’ and a blowin’ mighty

bad, Judge. I’ll get my coat––”“No, no, Hiram; there’s something for

you to do here. Watch that man; don’t lethim leave.”

“He ain’t gwine a-leave, Judge, sah,”said Hiram with calm significance.

Hiram held up the great frieze coat, andthe judge plunged his arms into it. Thenthe old negro adjusted the shawl about hismaster’s shoulders, and tucked the ends ofit inside the coat, buttoning that garmentover them, to shield the judge’s neck fromthe driving rain.

The judge turned back into the room tothrow another stick on the fire. The lampwas burning low; he reached over to turnup the wick. The flame jumped, faltered,went out.

“Hah, I’ve turned it out, Morgan. Well,no matter. You’ll not need more light thanthe fire throws. Make yourselfcomfortable, Morgan.”

With a word to Hiram, the judgeopened the door and stepped out into thenight.

On the pavement the wind met himrudely, and the rain drove its cold arrowsagainst his kind old face. Wonderful arethe ways of Providence, thought JudgeMaxwell, bending his head to bring hisbroad hat-brim to shield his face, andcomplete are the accounts of justice when

it is given that men may see them down tothe final word.

The wind laid hold of the judge’s coat,and tugged at it like a vicious dog; it ragedin the gaunt trees, and split in long sighsupon the gable-ends and eaves. There wasnobody abroad. For Shelbyville the hourwas late; Judge Maxwell had the street tohimself as he held on his way.

Past the court-house he fought the wind,and a square beyond that. There he turneddown a small street, where the force of theblast was broken, looking narrowly abouthim to right and left at the fronts of housesas he passed.

Simeon Harrison, Ollie Chase’s father,lately had given over his unprofitablestruggle with the soil. He had taken ahouse near the Methodist church and gone

into the business of teaming. He hauled themerchants’ goods up from the railroadstation, and moved such inhabitants ofShelbyville as once in a while made achange from one abode to another.

Sim had come to Shelbyville with aplan for setting up a general liverybusiness, in which ambition he had beenencouraged by Ollie’s marriage to IsomChase, to whom he looked, remotely, forfinancial backing. But that had turned out alean and unprofitable dream.

Since Isom’s death Ollie had returnedto live with her parents, and Sim’sprospects had brightened. He had put a bigsign in front of his house, upon which hehad listed the many services which hestood ready to perform for mankind, inconsideration of payment therefor. They

ranged from moving trunks to cleaningcisterns, and, by grace of all of them, Simwas doing very well.

When Sim Harrison heard of hisdaughter’s public confession of shamefulconduct with her book-agent boarder, hewas a highly scornful man. He scorned herfor her weakness in yielding to what hetermed the “dally-faddle” of the book-agent, and he doubly scorned her forrepudiating her former testimony. Themoral side of the matter was obscure tohim; it made no appeal.

His sense of personal pride and familyhonor was not touched by his daughter’sconfession of shame, any more than hissoul was moved to tenderness and warmthfor her honest rescue of Joe Newbolt fromhis overhanging peril. He was voluble in

his declarations that they would “put thescrews” to Ollie on the charge of perjury.Sim would have kept his own mouthsealed under like circumstances, and itwas beyond him to understand why hisdaughter had less discretion than herparent. So he bore down on the solemndeclaration that she stood face to facewith a prison term for perjury.

Sim had made so much of this that Ollieand her mother were watching that nightout in fear and trembling, sitting huddledtogether in a little room with the peak ofthe roof in the ceiling, a lamp burningbetween them on the stand. Their arms laylistlessly in their laps, they turned theirheads in quick starts at the sound of everyfootfall on the board walk, or when thewind swung the loose-jointed gate and

flung it against its anchorings. They werewaiting for the sheriff to come and carryOllie away to jail.

In front of Sim Harrison’s house therewas a little porch, not much bigger than ahand held slantingly against its weatheredside, and in the shadow of it one who hadapproached unheard by the anxiouswatchers through the blustering night,stood fumbling for the handle of a bell.But Sim Harrison’s door was bald of abell handle, as it was bare of paint, andnow a summons sounded on its thin panel,and went roaring through the house like ablow on a drum.

Mrs. Harrison looked meaningly atOllie; Ollie nodded, understandingly. Thesummons for which they had waited hadcome. The older woman rose in resigned

determination, went below and opened thedoor.

“It is Judge Maxwell,” said the darkfigure which stood large and fearful inMrs. Harrison’s sight. “I have come to seeMrs. Chase.”

“Yes, sir; I’ll call her,” said thetrembling woman.

Ollie had heard from the top of thestairs. She was descending in thedarkness, softly. She spoke as her motherturned from the door.

“I was expecting you–some of you,”said she.

“Very well, then,” said Judge Maxwell,wondering if that mysterious voice hadworked another miracle. “Get your wrapsand come with me.”

Mrs. Harrison began to groan and wail.Couldn’t they let the poor child stay theretill morning, under her own mother’s roof?It was a wild and terrible night, and Lordknew the poor, beaten, bruised, and wearybird would not fly away!

“Save your tears, madam, until they areneeded,” said the judge, not feeling that hewas called upon to explain the purpose ofhis visit to her.

“I’m ready to go,” announced Ollie,hooded and cloaked in the door.

Sim Harrison was stirring aboutoverhead. He came to the top of the stairswith a lamp in his hand, and wanted toknow what the rumpus was about.

“It’s Judge Maxwell–he’s come forOllie!” said his wife, in a despairing wail.

“I knowed it, I knowed it!” declaredSim, with fatalistic resignation, abovewhich there was perhaps a slight note oftriumph in seeing his own prediction sospeedily fulfilled.

To Harrison and his wife there was nodistinction between the executive andjudicial branches of the law. Judge orsheriff, it was all one to them, each beingequally terrible in their eyes.

“When can she come home, Judge,when can she come back?” appealed Mrs.Harrison, in anguished pleading.

“It rests with her,” returned the judge.He gave Ollie his arm, and they passed

together in silence up the street. They hadproceeded a square before the judgespoke.

“I am calling you on an unusualmission, Mrs. Chase,” he said, “but I didnot know a better way than this to go aboutwhat I felt it my duty to do.”

“Yes, sir,” said she. He could feel hertremble as she lightly touched his arm.

They passed the court-house. There wasa light in the sheriff’s office, but they didnot turn in there, and a sigh for thattemporary respite, at least, escaped her.The judge spoke again.

“You left the court-room today before Ihad a chance to speak to you, Mrs. Chase.I wanted to tell you how much I admiredyour courage in coming forward with thestatement that cleared away the doubt andtangles from Joe Newbolt’s case. Youdeserve a great deal of credit, which I amcertain the public will not withhold. You

are a brave little woman, Ollie Chase.”There it was again! Twice in a day she

had heard it, from eminent sources eachtime. The world was not a bleak desert, asshe had thought, but a place of kindnessand of gentle hearts.

“I’m glad you don’t blame me,” shefaltered, not knowing what to make of thisunexpected turn in the night’s adventure.

“A brave little woman!” repeated thejudge feelingly. “And I want you to knowthat I respect and admire you for what youhave done.”

Ollie was silent, but her heart wasshouting, leaping, and bounding again inlight freedom, as it had lifted that morningwhen Alice Price had spoken to her in herdespair. At last, she said, withearnestness:

“I promise you I’ll be a good woman,too, from now on, Judge Maxwell, and I’mthankful to you for your kind words.”

“We turn in here–this is my door,” saidthe judge.

Mystified, wondering what the nextdevelopment of this strange excursion intothe night would be, but satisfied in hermind that it meant no ill for her now, Olliewaited while the judge found the keyhole,for which he groped in the dark.

“And the matter of the will was alldisposed of by the probate judge today, Ihear,” said the judge, his hand on the door.

“Yes, sir.”“Then your life is all before you, to

make of it what you will,” said he, placinghis hand on her shoulder, as she stood

with him in the dim hall. He opened thestudy door. The wood on the grate wasblazing brightly. Ollie saw someonestanding before it, bending slightlyforward in the pose of expectation. Hewas tall and of familiar figure, and thefirelight was playing in the tossed curls ofhis short, fair hair.

“In there,” said the judge, “if you careto go.”

Ollie did not stir. Her feet felt rooted tothe floor in the wonder and doubt of thisstrange occurrence.

“Ollie!” cried the man at thehearthstone, calling her name imploringly.He came forward, holding out pleadinghands.

She stood a moment, as if gatheringherself to a resolution. A sob rose in her

throat, and broke from her lipstransformed into a trembling, sharp, gladcry. It was as if she had cast the clot ofsorrow from her heart. Then she passedinto the room and met him.

Judge Maxwell closed the door.

CHAPTER XXIIILEST I FORGET

Mrs. Newbolt was cutting splints for hernew sun-bonnet out of a pasteboard box.She hitched her chair back a little fartherinto the shadow of the porch, for theimpertinent sun was winking on her brightscissors, dazzling her eyes.

It was past the turn of the afternoon; asoft wind was moving with indolenceamong the tender leaves, sleepy from thescents of lilac and apple bloom which ithad drunk on its way. And now it loiteredunder the eaves of the porch to mixhoneysuckle with its stream of drowsysweets, like a chemist of Araby the Blest

preparing a perfume for the harem’s pride.There was the gleam of fresh paint on

the walls of the old house. The steps of theporch had been renewed with strongtimber, the rotting siding had beenreplaced. Mrs. Newbolt’s chair no longerdrew squeaks and groans from the floor ofthe porch as she rocked, swaying gently asher quick shears shaped the board. Newflooring had been laid there, and painted ahandsome gray; the falling trellis betweengate and door had been plumbed andrenewed.

New life was everywhere about the oldplace, yet its old charm was undisturbed,its old homeliness was unchanged.Comfort had come to dejection, tidinesshad been restored to beauty. The windowsof the old house now looked upon the

highway boldly, owing the world nothingin the way of glass.

Where the sprawling rail fence had lainfor nearly forty years, renewed piecemealfrom time to time as it rotted away, itscorners full of brambles, its stakes andriders overrun with poison-vine; wherethis brown, jointed structure had stretched,like a fossil worm, a great transformationhad come. The rails were gone, thebrambles were cleared away, and a neatwhite fence of pickets stretched in front ofthe house. This was flanked on either handby a high fence of woven wire, new to thatcountry then, at once the wonder of the oldinhabitants, the despair of prowling hogsand the bewilderment of hens. There wasa gate now where the old gap had been; itswung shut behind one with an eager little

spring, which startled agents and strangerswith the sharpness of its click.

The shrubbery had been cleared of deadwood, and the underlying generations ofwithered honeysuckle vines which hadspread under the green upon the oldtrellis, had been taken away. Freshnesswas there, the mark of an eager, vigoroushand. The matted blue grass which soddedthe yard had been cut and trimmed to linesalong the path. A great and happy changehad come over the old place, so longunder the shadow. People stopped toadmire it as they passed.

“Well, well; it’s the doin’s of that boy,Joe Newbolt!” they said.

Mrs. Newbolt paused in her clipping ofbonnet slats to make a menacing snip at abig white rooster which came picking

around the steps. The fowl stretched hislong neck and turned his bright eye up tohis mistress with a slanting of the head.

“How did you git out of that pen, youold scalawag?” she demanded.

The rooster took a long and dignifiedstep away from her, where he stood, withlittle appearance of alarm, turning hishead, questioning her with his shining eye.She made a little lunge with her shears.

“Yes, I’m goin’ to tell Joe on you, youscamp!” she threatened.

“Coo-doot-cut!” said the rooster,looking about him with a long stretching ofthe neck.

“Yes, you better begin to cackle overit,” said she, speaking in solemn reproof,as if addressing a child, “for Joe he’ll just

about cut your sassy old head clean off! Ifhe don’t do that, he’ll trim down that wingof yourn till you can’t bat a skeeter offyour nose with it, you redick-lous oldcritter!”

But it was not the threat of Joe that haddrawn the cry of alarm from the fowl. Thesound of steps was growing along the pathfrom the front gate, and the fowlscampered off to the cover of thegooseberry vines, as Mrs. Newbolt turnedto see who the visitor was. The scissorsfell from her lap, and her spool trundledoff across the porch.

“Laws, Sol Greening, you give me astart, sneakin’ up like that!”

Sol laughed out of his whiskers, with abig, loose-rolling sound, and sat on theporch without waiting to be asked.

“I walked up over the grass,” said he.“It’s as soft under your feet as plowedground. They say Joe’s got one of themlawn-cutters to mow it with?”

“Well, what if he has?” she wanted toknow. “He’s got a good many things andimprovements around here that you folksthat’s lived here for seventy years andmore never seen before, I reckon.”

“He sure is a great feller for steppin’out his own way!” marveled Sol. “I neverseen such a change in a place inside of ayear as Joe’s made in this one–never inmy mortal borned days. It was a lucky dayfor Joe when Judge Maxwell took a likin’to him that way.”

Mrs. Newbolt was looking awaytoward the hills, a dreamy cast in herplacid face.

“Yes,” said she, “there’s no denyin’that. But Joe he’d ’a’ got along, JudgeMaxwell or no Judge Maxwell. Only it’d’a’ been slower and harder for him.”

“He would ’a’,” nodded Sol, withoutreservation. “No discountin’ on that. Thatboy beats anything this here country everperduced, barrin’ none, and I ain’t sayin’that, either, ma’am, just to please you.”

“Much thanks I owe you for what youthink of Joe!” said she, scornfully. “Youwas ready enough, not so very long ago, toset the whole world ag’in’ him if youcould.”

“Well, circumstantial evidence–” beganSol.

“Oh, circumstantial nest-eggs!” saidshe, impatiently. “You’d known Joe all hislife, and you know very well he didn’t

shoot Isom Chase any more than you doneit yourself!”

“Well, mistakes is humant,” sighed Sol,taking advantage of that universalabsolution. “They say Judge Maxwell’sgoin’ to leave everything he’s got to Joe,and he’s got a considerable, I reckon.”

“I don’t know as Joe’d take it,” saidshe, folding her hands in her lap. “JudgeMaxwell had a hard time to git Joe to lethim put in the money to do things aroundhere, and send him to college over inShelbyville last winter. Joe let him do iton the understandin’ that it was a loan, tobe paid interest on and paid back when hewas able.”

“Well, from the start he’s makin’ itdon’t look like the judge ’d have very longto wait for his money,” said Sol. “Twenty

acres of apple trees all in a orchardtogether, and twenty acres of strawberriesset out betwixt and between the rows!”

He looked over the hillside and littleapron of valley where Joe’s youngorchard spread. Each tiny tree was aplume of leaves; the rows stretched out tothe hilltop, and over.

“I can figger out how twenty acres ofapples can be picked and took care of,”reflected Sol, as if going over withhimself something which he had giventhought to before, “but I’ll be durned if Ican figger out how any man’s goin’ to pickand take care of twenty acres ofstrawberries!”

“Joe knows,” said his mother.“Well, I hope he does,” sighed Sol, the

sigh being breathed to give expression of

what remained unspoken. No matter whathis hopes, his doubts were unshaken.

No man had ever taken care of twentyacres of strawberries–nor the twentiethpart of one acre, for that matter–in thatcommunity. No man could do it, accordingto the bone-deep belief of Sol and hiskind.

“Joe says that’s only a little dab of astart,” said she.

“Cree-mo-nee!” said Sol, his mouthstanding open like a mussel shell in thesun. “When’ll they be ripe?”

“Next spring.”“Which?” queried Sol, perking his head

in puzzled and impertinent way, very muchas the rooster had done a little whilebefore him.

“Next spring, I said,” she repeated,nodding over her bonnet, into which shewas slipping the splints.

“No crop this year?”“No; Joe says it weakens the plants to

bear the first year they’re set. It takes thestrength away from the roots, he says. Hegoes through the field and snips off everybloom he sees when he’s hoein’ among’em, and I help him between times. Wedon’t git all of ’em, by a mighty sight,though.”

Sol shook his head with wisedepreciation.

“Throwin’ away money,” said he.“Did you ever raise any strawberries?”

she inquired, putting down the bonnet,bringing Sol up with a sharp look.

“Reckon I raised as many as Joe everdid, and them mainly with a spoon,” saidSol.

The joke was not entirely new; it couldnot have been original with Sol by at leastthree hundred years. But it did very wellas an excuse for Sol to laugh. He wasalways looking for excuses to laugh, thatwas the one virtue in him. Without his biglaugh he would have been an empty sackwithout a bottom.

“Joe got them rows mighty purty andstraight,” said Sol, squinting along theapple trees.

“Yes, he set ’em out accordin’ togeog’aphy,” said she.

“Which?” said Sol.“Ge-og’a-phy, I said. Didn’t you never

hear tell of that before neither, SolGreening?”

“Oh,” said Sol, lightly, as if that made itall as plain to him as his own crackedthumbs. “How much does Joe reckon he’llgit off of that patch of berries when itbegins to bear?”

“I never heard him say he expected tomake anything,” said she, “but I read inone of them fruit-growin’ papers he takesthat they make as much as three hundreddollars an acre from ’em back in Ellinoi.”

Sol got up, slowly; took a backwardstep into the yard; filled his lungs, openedhis mouth, made his eyes round. Under theinternal pressure his whiskers stood onend and his face grew red. “Oh, you gitout!” said he.

“I can show it to you in the paper,” she

offered, making as if to put aside hersewing.

Sol laid a finger on his palm and stoodwith his head bent. After a bit he lookedup, his eyes still round.

“If he even makes a hundred, that’ll betwo thousand dollars a year!”

It was such a magnificent sum that Soldid not feel like taking the familiarity withit of mentioning it aloud. He whispered it,giving it large, rich sound.

“Why, I reckon it would be,” said she,offhand and careless, just as if twothousand a year, more or less, matteredvery little to Joe.

“That’s more than I ever made in mywhole dad-blame life,” said Sol.

“Well, whose fault is it, Sol?” asked

she.“I don’t believe it can be done!”“You’ll see,” she assured him,

comfortably.“And Joe he went and stuck to the old

place,” reflected Sol. “He might ’a’ gotsome better land for his sperimentin’ andprojeckin’ if he’d ’a’ looked around.”

“He was offered land, all the land aman could want,” said she. “Ollie wantedhim to take over the Chase home place andfarm it when she and Morgan married andleft, but Joe he said no; the Newbolts hadmade their failures here, he said, and herethey was goin’ to make their success. Hehad to redeem the past, Joe said, and wipeout the mistakes, and show folks what aNewbolt can do when he gits his foot setright.”

“He’ll do it, too,” said Sol, without areserved grudge or jealousy; “he’s doin’ italready.”

“Yes, I always knew Joe would,” saidshe. “When he was nothing but a littleshaver he’d read the CottageEncyclopedy and the Imitation and theBible, from back to back. I said then he’dbe governor of this state, and he will.”

She spoke confidently, nodding overher work.

“Shucks! How do you know he will?”Sol’s faith was not strong in this high-

flying forecast. It seemed to him that itwas crowding things a little too far.

“You’ll live to see it,” said she.Sol sat with his back against a pillar of

the porch, one foot on the ground, the other

standing on the boards in front of him, hishands locked about his doubled knee. Hesat there and looked up at the WidowNewbolt, raising his eyebrows and rollinghis eyes, but not lifting his head, whichwas slightly bent. “Well, what’s to be’s tobe,” said he. “When’s he goin’ to marry?”

“When he’s through goin’ to college.”“That’ll be two or three years, maybe?”“Maybe.”“Hum; Alice Price she’ll be gettin’

purty well along by that time.”“She’s not quite a year older than Joe,”

Mrs. Newbolt corrected him, with someasperity, “and she’s one of the kind that’llkeep. Well, I was married myself, and hada baby, when I was nineteen. But that’s nosign.”

“Joe’ll build, I reckon, before then?”guessed Sol.

“No; Alice don’t want him to. Shewants to come here a bride, to this house,like I come to it long, long ago. We’ll fixup and make ready for her, little by little,as we go along. It’ll be bringin’ back thepleasure of the old days, it’ll be like livin’my courtship and marriage over. This wasa fine house in the days that Peter broughtme here, for Peter, he had money then, andhe put the best there was goin’ into it.”

“It looks better than any house aroundhere now, since you fixed it up andpainted it,” said Sol.

“It’s better inside than outside,” saidshe, with a woman’s pride in a home,which justifies her warmth for it. “We hadit all plastered and varnished. The doors

and casin’s and all the trimmin’s arewalnut, worth their weight in gold, now,almost, Judge Maxwell says.”

“Yes, the curly walnut’s all gone, yearsand years ago,” said Sol.

“It passed away with the pioneers,”sighed she.

“I suppose they’ll build in time,though?” Sol said.

“I ’low they will, maybe, after I’mgone,” said she.

“Well, well!” said Sol. He sat silent alittle while. “Folks never have got overwonderin’ on the way she took up withJoe,” he said.

Mrs. Newbolt flashed up in a breath.“Why should anybody wonder, I’d like

for you to tell me?” she demanded. “Joe

he’s good enough for her, and too good foranybody else in this county! Who else wasthere for Joe, who else was there forAlice?”

Sol did not attempt to answer. It wasbeyond him, the way some peoplefiggered, he thought in the back of hismind. There was his own girl, Tilda Bell.He considered her the equal to anyNewbolt that ever straddled a horse androde over from Kentucky. But then, younever could tell how tastes run.

“Well, reckon I’ll have to be rackin’out home,” said he, getting up, tiptoeing totake the cramp out of his legs.

“Yes, and I’ll have to be stirrin’ thepots to get supper for my boy Joe,” shesaid.

The smoke from her kitchen fire rose

white as she put in dry sumac to give it astart. It mounted straight as a plume for alittle way, until it met the cool air ofevening which was beginning to fall.There it spread, like a floating silkenscarf, and settled over the roof. It drapeddown slowly over the walls, until itenveloped the old home like thebenediction of a loving heart.

The sun was descending the ladder ofthe hills; low now it stood above them, thevalley in shadow more than half itsbreadth, a tender flood of gold upon theslope where the new orchard waved itseager shoots; the blessing of a day waspassing in the promise of a day to come.

Out of the kitchen came the cheerfulsound of batter for the corn bread beingbeaten in the bowl, and with it Sarah

Newbolt’s voice in song:

Near the cross, O Lamb ofGod––

The beating of the batter dimmed the nextline. Then it rose to the close––

Let me walk from day to day,With its shadow o’er me.

The clamp of the oven door was heard,and silence followed.

Sarah was standing on the porch againwiping her hands on her apron, lookingaway toward the fields. The sun wasdipping now into the forest cresting thehills; the white rooster was pacing theoutside of the wire enclosure from whichhe had escaped, in frantic search of anopening to admit him to his perch, his

proud head all rumpled in his baffledeagerness, his dangling wattles fiery red.

The smoke had found the low places ingarden and lawn, where it hovered; adove wailed from the old orchard, wherea pair of them nested year after year; alittle child-wind came with soft fingers,and laid them on the waiting woman’shair.

Her face quickened with a smile. Joewas coming home from the field. Over hisshoulder he carried his hoe, and as hecame on toward her in yard-long strideshis mother thought of the young soldiersshe had seen march away to the war,carrying their guns in that same freeconfidence of careless strength. His hatwas pushed back from his forehead, thecollar of his blue flannel shirt was open.

His boyish suspenders had been put awayin favor of a belt, which was tight-drawnabout his slim waist.

Very trim and strong, and confident helooked, with the glow of youth in hischeeks, and the spark of happiness in hisgray eyes. He was well set in the form ofa man now, the months since hisimprisonment having brought him much tofasten upon and hold.

Joe made the same great splashing thathe had made on that spring evening of ayear gone by, when he came home fromwork to step into the shadow which soquickly grew into a storm. But there wasno shadow ahead of him this night; therewas no somber thing to bend down thehigh serenity of his happy heart.

He stood before the glass hung above

the wash bench and smoothed his hair.Mrs. Newbolt was standing by the stove,one of the lids partly removed, somewhite thing in her hand which she seemedhesitating over consigning to the flames.

“What’ve you got there, Mother?” heasked cheerily as he turned to take hisplace at the waiting table.

“Laws,” said she, in some perturbation,her face flushed, holding the thing in herhand up to his better view, “it’s that oldpaper I got from Isom when I–a year ago! Imislaid it when the men was paintin’ andplasterin’, and I just now run across itstuck back of the coffee jar.”

For a moment Joe stood behind her,silently, looking over her shoulder at thesignature of Isom Chase.

“It’s no use now,” said she, her

humiliation over being confronted withthis reminder of her past perfidy againsther beloved boy almost overwhelmingher. “We might as well put it in the stoveand git it out of sight.”

Joe looked at her with a smile, his facestill solemn and serious for all its youthand the fires of new-lit hope behind hiseyes. He laid his hand upon her shoulderassuringly, and closed the stove.

“Give it to me, Mother,” said he,reaching out his hand.

She placed the bond of his transferenceto Isom Chase in it, and those old heart-wrung tears of hers, which had been dryupon her cheeks now for many a happyday, welled, and flowed down silently.

Joe folded the paper.

“I’ll keep it, Mother,” said he, “so thatit will stand as a reminder to me inprosperity that I was once poor and inbondage; and in my happiness that it maytell me of the days when I was forsakenand in prison, with only my mother’sfaithful hand to comfort me.

“I’ll put it away and keep it, Mother,lest in my prosperity some day I mayforget the Lord; forget that He giveth, andthat He taketh away, also; that His handchastiseth in the same measure that itbestows blessings upon us. I’ll leave it uphere, Mother, on the old shelf; right whereI can see it every time I take down theBook.”

W. B. C.

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