I went to the jail to see Blant this morning,—but was almost sorry that I did so. He sits there in his cell, speechless, despairing, refusing food or rest, hearing and seeing nothing. In vain the jail-keeper and I attempted to talk to him and tell him he must not reproach himself so bitterly, or give way to such utter despair, since he was in no way to blame for the death of his friend. He looked agonizingly beyond us, evidently not conscious that we were talking.

The worst of it is that circuit court will not sit here again until early April,—two and a half months, and his suffering must be cruelly protracted.

After this visit it was almost impossible for me to go in and talk and read cheerfully to Nucky, and make plausible excuses for Blant's non-appearance, which is worrying him a great deal.

"I had news from Trigger yesterday," I told him, "Todd has gone away, so there will probably be peace for a long while."

"Where has he gone to?" he asked.

"I am unable to say," I replied.

Monday.

Blant continues to refuse all food, and to maintain his terrible silence. He sits with his head in his hands all day long, oblivious of everything around him. The kind-hearted keeper stays in his cell with him at night. "I know he haint in no fix to stand lonesomeness," he said to me to-day; "even if he don't pay no attention to me, I allow it's some comfort to him to have a human nigh." Then he added, "If he haint able to speak out his grief before long, it's liable to strike in and kill him. Something ought to be done to rouse him."

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't rightly know. But he's turnt loose all holts on life; something to grapple him to it again is needed."

Knowing their love for each other, my first thought of course was to bring Nucky; but the terrible story could have only disastrous effects upon him at present, so that is not to be considered.

Thursday.

The mail-carrier stopped at the gate yesterday to say, "I hear tell that Blant haint toch a morsel of vittles sence he shot Rich. Neither has the babe, sence he left it, to speak of,—the pore little creetur just whimps and pines for him continual, and won't scacely tech the food its pap gives it. Minervy Saxby's been over trying to peaceify it,—but in vain. It was allus purely silly about Blant, allowing he's its maw. When a babe gits its mind sot thataway on a proposition, there haint no help for it but to give it what it craves. It's likely to pine away if you don't."

I did not tell Blant of this when I stopped by the jail this afternoon,—I hope it will not reach him, as it could only add to his misery. I was thankful when I arrived to find him out in the common room, where all the prisoners stay during the day, even though he sat in a corner and did not seem to see the others.

The keeper followed me out again, and talked a while on the steps, "I got Blant started on a few vittles to-day, after nine days of starving," he said. "The way I done it was to make out I thought he was trying to cheat the gallows. Then he called for meat and bread. 'Pears like the gallows is the onliest prospect he is able to take any comfort in, and I hold it before him constant, to sort of keep his sperrits up. Though God knows I'm a-acting the black hypocrite when I do it, when there haint the least grain of a show for him to get a death sentence. There's a strong prejudyce again' hanging in this country,—not a jury ever set in this court-house that pronounced a death sentence,—Blant would a-knowed it if he had stopped to think. But even if the prejudyce didn't exist, why Blant haint done nothing to earn the gallows,—you might say he haint done anything for the law to take hold of. Of course everybody knows his shooting of Rich was the worst kind of accident; and as for the Cheevers he has killed and maimed, why, that war is really a family affair, which the law haint got no business to meddle with. Public sentiment is again' the law mixing up in affairs like that, and that's the reason why no great effort haint been made to arrest Blant before now. Folks has knowed he meant well, and was hard placed, and let it go at that. Now he's throwed hisself into the very jaws of the law, however, it may feel compelled to do something; but of course it won't be nothing like no death sentence. But I haven't got the heart to tell him so,—no, I really have not,—I believe he would dash his brains out again' the wall if I did."

Nucky was more insistent this afternoon when I read to him (he is sitting up now and begins to look like himself). "I know pine-blank something is wrong on Trigger, or Blant would have been here," he said, anxiously.

"Nothing is wrong there, except that the babe is ailing," I said, "the mail-carrier told me yesterday she was far from well."

First Sunday, February.

I should be quite weighed down by the Marrs troubles if it were not for the cheerful society of the boys, whose lively and funny doings afford some escape from tragic and depressing thoughts. This morning before church, when I was making the usual round of the ears with soap and wash-rag, to my utter amazement I found Philip's clean, inside and out, behind and before. At first stricken dumb by the discovery—for I long since abandoned the hope of reforming him in the matters of chivalry and cleanliness—I finally inquired what was the matter.

"Nothing, I just kep' a-digging," was his careless reply.

To-night, however, when everybody was undressing, Hen slid noiselessly into my room, mysteriously shutting the door behind him. Half clothed, I dived into my closet, soon emerging in my wrapper. Hen himself was in trousers and undershirt, with dangling gallusses. Planting himself on the hearth, back to the fire, he held up first one bare foot, then the other, to the blaze, and at last spoke in a confidential tone:

"Philip lied to you this morning when he said there wa'n't nothing the matter with him. He knows what made him wash his years, and I know."

"What was it?" I inquired, drawing up the rocker.

"He's a-courting, that's what's the matter."

"Courting!" I exclaimed, incredulously.

"Yes, courting, by grab! You mind Dilsey Warrick, that 'ere little tow-head come in atter Christmas, from over on Wace?"

Yes, I remembered Dilsey,—a demure dove of a child, in blue home-spun dress and red yarn stockings, with long, fair hair hanging in two plaits, and the face of an austere little saint. She is at least three years older and a head taller than Hen, but it pleases him to speak of the sex in diminutives.

"You know I pack water to the big house of a morning before breakfast," he continued; "well, Dilsey she sweeps off the front porch over yander then, and Philip he goes round and mends the fence where the hogs breaks in of a night."

I groaned an assent,—the neighborhood hogs are badly on the rampage, after our mustard-and turnip-greens, which show temptingly when the snow melts; and the fence is so frail it gives way constantly to their assaults.

"Well," proceeded Hen, "that's as good a chanct as he wants, when thaint nobody much around but me. But I keep my eye on him,—I tip round the corner of the house right easy, and come up on 'em unexpected."

"You are certainly mistaken about Philip," I said decidedly, "why, he despises girls, has no earthly use for them, in fact."

"Dag gone me, he's got use enough for little Dilsey, by Ned! Gee, I never see the beat! He sot in a-courting her the day he got out from eech, and haint stopped to ketch his breath sence. Dad swinge my hide if that 'ere boy haint been nailing planks on that front fence with lee-tle-bitty fourpenny nails, so's the hogs'll root 'em off sure every night, and he'll git to work there and talk to Dilsey of a morning! I been keeping my eye peeled for him ever sence I seed him give her a' apple one day at recess,—I knowed then something had happened to him!"

I sat speechless.

"But what made him wash his years," continued Hen, with lowered voice and another glance at the door; "one morning whilst Dilsey was a-sweeping, here come Philip along, a-swinging his hammer and nail-box. He put his hand in his pocket and pult out a candy cane I had seed him a-eating on the night before,—one of these-here they fotch on at the store for Christmas—and poked it at Dilsey. 'Have some,' he says, 'eat it all, if you want.' Dilsey she put out her hand for it, and then she tuck a hard look at it, and then at Philip, and says she's obleeged, but she don't believe she wants any. Philip he shoved it ag'in' her face. 'Don't be afeared,' he says, 'I'd ruther you'd have it as anybody'. Little Dilse she said no thanks, she wouldn't choose any (dag gone if she haint the ladyest girl ever I heared talk!); and Philip axed her what's the reason. But she just kep' a-sweeping, and wouldn't open her mouth. Then Philip he grabbed her by the shoulder, and says, by Heck, she's got to tell. And Dilse she shuck him off proud-like, and says, 'Well, if you bound to hear it, I don't crave to eat atter no boy that don't never wash his years!' Then Philip he was b'iling (dad burn if I'd take any such talk from any woman!), and he says, 'I bet they clean as yourn!'; and Dilsey she frowned and spoke up solemn, 'I'd have you know, Mister Philip Floyd, my years gits washed every day I live!', and made for the door. And Philip he seed me behind the post and give me as much candy cane as I could bite off not to tell nobody what she said to him. And for two days he sulled, and never come anigh her mornings, and mended the back fence. Then when his bath night come, he turnt in and pintly scrubbed the hide off his years, in and out, and went back to mending the front fence next morning; and him and Dilse made up; and he allus gives her new sticks of candy now; and don't you never let on I told you, less'n you want to see me kilt!"