"Egzackly! Well, it must be done over ag'in."

Mr. Tidwell lowered his head and appeared to reflect. Then he straightened up again, and his face was very serious. "Mr. Sanders, has Tomlin Perdue been dropping his wing about that fuss? Has he been making remarks?"

"Oh, I reckon not," replied Mr. Sanders cheerfully. "But I've got a mighty good reason for axin' you about it. Come in your office, Gus, an'

I'll tell you all I know, an' it won't take me two minnits."

They went in and closed the door, and remained in consultation for some time. While they were thus engaged, Silas Tomlin came to the door, tried the bolt, and finding that it would not yield, walked restlessly up and down, preyed upon by many strange and conflicting emotions. He had evidently gone through much mental suffering. His face was drawn and haggard, and his clothes were shabbier than ever. He took no account of time, but walked up and down, waiting for Mr. Tidwell to come out, and as he walked he was the victim both of his fears and his affections. One moment, he heartily wished that he might never see his son again; the next he would have given everything he possessed to have the boy back, and hear once more the familiar, "h.e.l.lo, father!"

After awhile, Mr. Sanders and Mr. Tidwell came forth from the lawyer's office. They appeared to be in fine humour, for both were laughing, as though some side-splitting joke had just pa.s.sed between them.

"There's no doubt about it, Mr. Sanders," Lawyer Tidwell was saying, "you ought to be a major-general!"

"I declare, Tidwell!" exclaimed Silas, with something like indignation, "I don't see how you can go around happy and laughing under the circ.u.mstances. You do like you could fetch your son back with a laugh. I wish I could fetch Paul back that way."

"Well, he'd stay whar he is, Silas," said Mr. Sanders, with a benevolent smile, "ef his comin' back had to be brung about by any hilarity from you. Why, you ain't laughed but once sence you was a baby, an' when you heard the sound of it you set up a howl that's lasted ever sence."

"If you think, Silas, that crying will bring the boys back," said Mr.

Tidwell, "I'll join you in a crying-match, and stand here and boohoo with you just as long as you want to."

"I just called by to see if you had heard any news," remarked Silas, taking no offence at the sarcastic utterances of the two men. "I am just obliged to get some news. I am on pins: I can't sleep at night; and my appet.i.te is gone."

Mr. Sanders looked at the man's haggard face, and immediately became serious and sympathetic. "Well, I tell you, Silas, you needn't worry another minnit. The only one amongst 'em that's in real trouble is Gabriel Tolliver. I've looked into the case from A to Izzard, an' that's the way it stan's."

"That is perfectly true," a.s.sented Mr. Tidwell. "We can account for the movements of all the boys on the night of the killing except those of Tolliver; and he is in considerable danger. By the way, Silas, you said some time ago--oh, ever so long ago--that you would bring me a copy of _Blackwood's Magazine_. You remember there was a story in it you wanted me to read."

"No, I--well, I tried to find it; I hunted for it high and low; but I haven't been able to put my hands on it. But I've had so much trouble of one kind and another, that I clean forgot it. I'm glad you mentioned it; I'll try to find it again."

"Well, as a lawyer," said Mr. Tidwell, somewhat significantly--or so it seemed to Silas--"I don't charge you a cent for telling you that your case wouldn't stand a minnit."

"My case--my case! What case? I have no case. Why, I don't know what you are talking about." He shook his head and waved his hand nervously.

"Oh, I remember now; your case was purely hypothetical," said Mr.

Tidwell. "Well, your _Blackwood_ was wrong about it."

"That's what I thought," Silas a.s.sented with a grunt; and with that, he turned abruptly away, and went in the direction of his house.

"I'll tell you what's the fact," remarked Mr. Sanders, as he watched the shabby and shrunken figure retreat; "I'm about to change my mind about Silas. I used to think he was mean all through; but he's got a nice warm place in his heart for that son of his'n. I declare I feel right sorry for the man."

Before Cephas went away, he was not too busy learning the lessons Mr.

Sanders had set for him to forget to hunt up Nan Dorrington and tell her the wonderful news; to-wit, that he was about to go on a journey, and that while he was gone he would most likely see Gabriel.

"Well," said Nan, drawing herself up a little stiffly, "what is that to me?" Unfortunately, Cephas had come upon the girl when she was talking with Eugenia Claiborne, who had sought her out at the Lumsden Place.

Cephas looked at her hard a moment, and then his freckled face turned red. He was properly angry. "Well, whatever it may be to you, it's a heap to me," he said. "I hope it's nothing to you."

"Cephas, will you see Paul Tomlin?" asked Eugenia. "If you do, tell him that one of his friends sent him her love."

"Is it sure enough love?" inquired Cephas.

"Yes, Cephas, it is," replied Eugenia simply and seriously--but her face was very red. "Tell him that Eugenia Claiborne sent him her love."

"All right," said Cephas, and turned away without looking at Nan. She had hurt his feelings.

This turn of affairs didn't suit Nan at all. She ran after Cephas, and caught him by the arm. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Cephas, to treat me so? How could I tell you anything before others? If you see Gabriel, tell him--oh, I don't know what to say. If I was to tell you what I want to, you'd say that Nan Dorrington had lost her mind. No, I'll not send any word, Cephas. It wouldn't be proper in a young lady. If he asks about me, just tell him that I am well and happy."

She turned away, in response to a call from Eugenia Claiborne, but she kept her eyes on Cephas for some time. Evidently she wished to send a message, but was afraid to. "Don't be angry with me, Cephas," she said, before the youngster got out of hearing. Cephas made no reply, but trudged on stolidly. He was at the age when a boy is easily disgusted with girls and young women. You may call them sweet creatures if you want to, but a twelve-year-old boy is not to be deceived by fine words.

The sweet creatures are under no restraints when dealing with small boys, and the small boys are well acquainted with all their worst traits. What is most strange is that this intimate knowledge is of no service to them when they grow a little older. They forget all about it and fall into the first trap that love sets for them.

Cephas was angry without knowing why. He felt that both Gabriel and himself had been insulted, though he couldn't have explained the nature of the insult; and he was all the angrier because he was fond of Nan.

She had been very kind to the little boy--kinder, perhaps, than he deserved, for he had made the impulsive young lady the victim of many a practical joke.

As Cephas went along, it suddenly occurred to him that he had done wrong to say anything about his proposed journey, and the thought took away all his resentment. He whirled in his tracks, and ran back to where he had left the girls. He saw Eugenia Claiborne sauntering along the street, but Nan was nowhere in sight. He had no trouble in pledging Miss Claiborne to secrecy, for she was very fond of all sorts of secrets, and could keep them as well as another girl.

Nan, she informed Cephas, had expressed a determination to visit him at his own home, and, in fact, Cephas found her there. She was as sweet as sugar, and was not at all the same Nan who had drawn herself up proudly and as good as told Cephas that it was nothing to her that he was going to see Gabriel. No; this was another Nan, and she had a troubled look in her eyes that Cephas had never seen there before.

"I came to see if you were still angry, Cephas," she said by way of explanation. "I wasn't very nice to you, was I?"

"Well, I hope you don't mind Cephas," said the lad's mother. "If you do, he'll keep you guessing. Has he been rude to you, Nan?"

And it was then that Cephas heard praise poured on his name in a steady stream. Cephas rude! Cephas saucy! A thousand times no! Why, he was the best, the kindest, and the brightest child in the town. Nan was so much in earnest that Cephas had to blush.

"I didn't know," said his mother. "He has been going with those large boys so much that I was afraid he was getting too big for his breeches."

She loved her son, but she had no illusions about the nature of boys; she knew them well.

"Are you still angry, Cephas?" Nan asked. She appeared very anxious to be sure on that score.

"N-o-o," replied Cephas, somewhat doubtfully; he hesitated to surrender the advantage that he saw he had.

"Yes, you are," said Nan, "and I think it is very unkind of you. I am sorry you misunderstood me; if you only knew how I really feel, and how much trouble I have, you would be sorry instead of angry."

"I'm the one to blame," said Cephas penitently. "Gabriel says you dislike him, and I thought he was only guessing. But he knew better than I did. I had no business to bother you."

Nan caught her breath. "Did Gabriel say I disliked him?"

"He didn't say that word," replied Cephas. "I think he said you detested him, and I told him he didn't know what he was talking about. But he did; he knew a great deal better than I did, because I didn't really know until just now."

"But, Cephas!" cried Nan; "what could have put such an idea in his head?" Cephas's mother was now busy about the house.

"I didn't know then, but I know now," remarked the boy stolidly.

"Don't be unkind, Cephas. If you knew me better, you'd be sorry for me.

You and Gabriel are terribly mistaken. I'm very fond of both of you."

"Oh, _I_ don't count in this game," Cephas declared.

"Oh, yes, you do," said Nan. "You are one of my dearest friends, and so is Gabriel."

"All right," said Cephas. "If you treat all your dearest friends as you do Gabriel, I'm very sorry for them."