The moment of silence in the court room was followed by a confused murmur of voices. People were moving about in their seats and craning their necks, anxious to see. Charlie Pickett was on his feet, his face flushed, his breast heaving with emotion, his eyes fixed on the two figures at the witness stand. When Abner Pickett lifted his face from Dannie’s neck, his eyes were filled with tears.

“Where did you come from, Dannie?” he asked; and Dannie answered:—

“I came from home, Gran’pap.”

“Not to-day?”

“Yes, to-day.”

“But, Dannie, how—how—?”

“I had to, Gran’pap. I had to tell you. I had to make it right as near as I could, as quick as I could.”

Again the old man, leaning far out over the rail, drew the boy up to his breast.

For the moment Marshall was at a loss how to act. He did not quite know what was coming next. Then his long experience and his native shrewdness came to his rescue, and he rose to the situation.

“That will do, Mr. Pickett,” he said. “Dannie, you may take the witness stand.”

The next minute Dannie was in the place vacated by his grandfather, and the old man, refusing to go far away, had dropped into a chair by the defendant’s table, inside the bar.

Marshall began his questions with gentle emphasis.

“Your name is Dannie Pickett?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are a grandson of the witness last on the stand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is it true that you pulled out the stakes set by the engineers of the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“When did you remove them?”

“The same night they were set.”

“At about what hour of the night?”

“I think it was about eleven o’clock when I began. I don’t know what time it was when I got through.”

“How many stakes did you remove?”

“All of ’em. I began in the potato field where they left off surveying that night, and I pulled ’em out all the way through the meadow, and across the road, and in the graveyard, and down the gap, and along the hill on the other side.”

“You made a clean sweep of it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir; I think I found every one, as far as I went.”

“Was any one there with you?”

“No, sir. I did it all alone. Oh, yes! there was some one with me comin’ back. The other engineers. I met ’em in the gap.”

“You mean the engineers of the T. & W.?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So they were with you, were they?”

“Yes, sir. But not until after I was all through an’ comin’ home. Then they made me go back with ’em.”

“Down through the gap?”

“Yes, sir, all the way.”

“Did you tell them you had removed the stakes?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“Did they know it?”

“No, sir, they didn’t. Not one of ’em. I didn’t tell anybody, not even Gran’pap.”

“Did any one ask you to remove those stakes?”

“No, sir, not any one.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Well, I just thought they had no right to set ’em where they did. I thought they wouldn’t ’a’ done it if Gran’pap had been there. I thought if I pulled ’em out, they couldn’t build any railroad through the graveyard. And then, I got very angry at the engineer for what he said to me when I asked him about the railroad.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Well, if you please, I’d rather not tell.”

“You needn’t. Now, Dannie, didn’t you know that you were doing wrong when you removed those stakes, no matter what your motive might have been?”

“I didn’t stop to think much about it then. I just went ahead and did it. But I know now that it was wrong. I’ve known it ever since it was done. I haven’t any excuse to make.”

“Do you want it understood that you alone are to blame, and that you alone are responsible for this deed?”

“Yes, sir. That’s it exactly.”

“Well, let us see about that. Did you, on the evening of the night in which you removed the stakes, hear your grandfather declare that no person could do a better deed than to pull them all up and throw them into the brook?”

“Why, yes, sir—yes; I heard him say somethin’ like that.”

“Very well. Did or did not that declaration have anything to do with your subsequent conduct?”

Marshall saw that the sympathy of the audience, and possibly of the court, was with the child, and he desired to trace the moral, if not the actual responsibility for the deed back to shoulders that would not be spared. Dannie looked hopelessly down at his questioner, and then turned an appealing glance to his grandfather, who sat with bowed head and eyes fixed on the floor, and did not see him.

“I’d rather not answer that question,” he said, at last, and then added quickly: “If my grandfather’d had any idea of what I was goin’ to do, he’d ’a’ stopped me. I know he would. Why, I stole out o’ the house in my stockin’ feet, so he wouldn’t hear me. And I never told ’im what I’d done till I told ’im here to-day. Never! never! never!”

“There, Dannie; don’t get excited. Just keep cool and answer my question. Would you have gone out that night and removed those stakes if you had not heard your grandfather say it would be a good thing to do?”

Again the boy looked hopelessly down at the lawyer and was silent. He knew, in his heart, that it was his grandfather’s declaration that had started him on his midnight errand; but he would rather have faced the terrors of the jail than said so. He would not willingly shift any part of the burden of responsibility to other shoulders than his own. In the midst of the profound silence which followed Marshall’s question, Abner Pickett rose slowly to his feet.

“I’ll answer that,” he said. “The boy ain’t to blame. He simply did what he thought I wanted done. In his heart and soul the child is innocent. If any crime has been committed, I’m the one who is guilty of it.”

He spoke slowly, distinctly, yet with a tremor in his voice that betrayed his deep emotion. It was all out of order, this declaration of his, in the midst of the examination of another witness, but no one interrupted him; even court and counsel listened with close attention until he finished his appeal and dropped back into his chair. Then Dannie himself was the first to speak.

“Oh, no, Gran’pap!” he exclaimed; “oh, no! Maybe I wouldn’t ’a’ done it but for what you said; but I ought to ’a’ known you didn’t mean it. I ought to ’a’ known you wouldn’t ’a’ let me done it. I ought to ’a’ known you wouldn’t permit anything wrong. And that was wrong, and I knew it; only I didn’t stop to think. Oh, no, Gran’pap; I’m to blame! I’m to blame!”

He held out his hands appealingly as he spoke, gazing alternately at his grandfather and at the lawyer. Tears were coursing down the old man’s cheeks; and out in the court room many an eye was moist watching this little drama of love and protection, staged and played in the bar of the court.

It was plain to the dullest understanding that the boy was frank and truthful, and that the old man was not inclined to shirk his share of the responsibility. But Marshall was not yet satisfied. He wanted not only the truth, but the whole truth. It was due to his client that every fact should be brought out in detail. He took up again the regular order of examination.

“Were you subpoenaed as a witness in this case?” he asked.

“No,” replied Dannie, “I wasn’t.”

“Then what was it that led you to come here and make this remarkable statement?”

“Well, I’ll tell you how it was. I got to thinkin’ about it yesterday, after they’d all gone, and I thought an’ thought, till it seemed as if it’d kill me if I didn’t tell somebody. An’ so, last night, I told Aunt Martha. An’ she said the only way to make it right was by tellin’ those that had been injured by what I’d done. So we made it up between us that I was to come up here the first thing this mornin’ an’ tell it all. And I tried to get here before court began; but—but I couldn’t make out to do it. I—I’m sorry I was so long comin’; but I hope it ain’t too late?”

Marshall looked up at him incredulously.

“You haven’t come here from Pickett’s Gap to-day, my boy?”

“Yes, sir. I left there this mornin’ real early; before it began to drift much.”

“But the roads are absolutely impassable!”

“I know. We had hard work. The roads were drifted full. I came in the stage as far as the poor-house. The horses gave out there. Then the stage driver and I, we footed it as far as Keene’s. From there I walked on to Mooreville alone.”

As he recalled that awful journey Dannie looked up wearily, and out over the sea of sympathetic faces turned toward him in the court room. But he was too tired to see them. They floated indistinctly before him. They seemed to advance and recede, to expand and contract, alternately to fade and find form before his aching eyes.

“And did you think it necessary to come here at the risk of your life to make this acknowledgment?” asked Marshall.

“Why, I didn’t think just that way about it,” replied the boy; “but I knew I’d done wrong to keep it to myself so, an’ I felt that I ought to get here an’ tell about it as soon as I could. I wanted Gran’pap to know. I never kept anything from him before, an’ I wanted to tell him first, because he’s done more for me, an’ been kinder to me than anybody else. An’ then—an’ then I’d heard that the engineer who made the night survey had been accused o’ pullin’ out those stakes, or havin’ ’em pulled out; an’ I was afraid they’d try to prove it on ’im here, an’ maybe find ’im guilty of it before I could get here an’ set ’em right. And I wouldn’t ’a’ had that happen—why, I’d sooner ’a’ died in the snow than had ’em do that. He was so good to run his line around the graveyard. He was so gentle, an’ kind, an’—an’, oh, he couldn’t ’a’ been kinder an’ gentler an’ sweeter to me if he’d ’a’ been my own father.”

Charlie Pickett, sitting back among the spectators, felt the hot blood surge into his face, and the paternal passion flood his heart. He longed to take this boy at once in his arms,—this boy whose frank acknowledgment of his fault had brought tears to a hundred eyes, whose simple story of dreadful daring for conscience’ sake had thrilled every breast in the court room,—to take him at once into the shelter of his love, and keep him and protect him against all the world.

But Marshall was asking his last question.

“Have you anything more to say, Dannie, in extenuation of your conduct? I do not know what action, if any, the officers of the D. V. & E. will take against you. Your offence was certainly a serious one. But, in view of any possible punishment they may have in mind for you, I want to give you this opportunity for any further explanation you may wish to make.”

“I’ve nothing more to say,” replied Dannie, wearily; “I’ve told you all. I’m ready to be punished for what I’ve done. I made up my mind to that before I came here. I’m willin’ to go to jail; except that I’d be sorry for the disgrace I’d brought on Gran’pap an’ Aunt Martha. They brought me up to be honest an’ good. An’ I’d be sorry on account of my father, too, very sorry, if he should ever know about it. But I’ve no complaint to make, an’ I’ll try to stand whatever comes without cryin’.”

Yet even as he spoke, the boy’s lips trembled, and great tears filled his eyes. He could not help thinking of those gloomy and forbidding cells in the county jail.

A gentleman who had been sitting inside the bar, listening intently to the testimony, came over hurriedly and whispered to Marshall. The latter rose at once from his chair, and said to Dannie:—

“Mr. Rayburn, the general manager of the D. V. & E. just informs me that his company will not prosecute you for your offence against the law. He says he believes that your conscience, has already punished you with sufficient severity to say nothing of what you have endured in forcing your way here through this terrible storm to set us right on what has been, heretofore, an unexplainable mystery. Moreover, he wishes me to thank you for your frank and manly statement of the facts. That is all. You may leave the stand.”

But Dannie did not move. The revulsion of feeling on learning that, after all, he was not to be punished, that the iron doors of the grim old jail were not to open for his admittance, was too strong to be controlled. His face flushed with sudden joy, and then the color all went out and he grew white as death. The lashes of his eyelids drooped upon his cheeks, his hands fell to his sides, his chin sank upon his breast, and those who looked on him saw that he had been stricken with sudden faintness. A court attendant hurried into a side room for a glass of water. Abner Pickett and Marshall were on their feet in an instant hurrying toward the fainting boy. But before either of them could reach his chair, Charlie Pickett, with great strides, had swung himself from the bench where he was sitting to the boy’s side, and had caught him in his arms. He held him to his breast, looking about for an instant to see what he should do. Then, without waiting to follow any of the dozen suggestions that were given to him simultaneously by lawyers and officers of the court, he started with his burden down the crowded aisle. People gave way before him, looking with sympathetic eyes on the limp little body borne so tenderly in the strong parental arms. When he reached the long corridor, Charlie saw the door of a jury room standing invitingly open, and into that he hurried and laid the unconscious boy at full length on a convenient bench. A court attendant bustled in with a glass of water. A young physician, who had been sitting in the court room, hurried in and offered his services.

“I am a doctor,” he said; “perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

He felt the boy’s pulse, touched his cheek, and listened to his breathing.

“It is only a fainting spell,” he said; “he will come out of it in a minute. Brought on by excitement and exhaustion, I presume. I don’t wonder at it if the boy’s story of his journey through the storm is true.”

He was chafing Dannie’s hands as he spoke, loosening the neckband of his shirt, and touching his cheek to note the returning circulation.

“Whatever he said is true,” declared Abner Pickett; “the boy never told a lie in his life.”

Gabriel, who had followed the party to the jury room, had, with a quick instinct not unusual for him, constituted himself a doorkeeper, and was holding back the curious and inquiring crowd.

“Jest a little faintin’ spell,” he explained. “Ain’t used to court, you know, an’ the judge an’ the lawyers an’ all, they kind o’ scairt ’im. He’ll be all right in a minute or two—much obleeged to ye.”

Charlie Pickett, leaning over the prostrate body of his son, touched his father’s arm.

“Father,” he said, “I want to speak to you for a moment. Dannie is safe in the doctor’s hands. Will you come out with me?”

And Abner Pickett looked up at him coldly and replied:—

“I’ve no call to speak to you, sir. I’ll take care of the boy.”

“Then I shall exercise my right as a father in the presence of these people.”

Before either of the men could speak again, Dannie opened his eyes and looked around him.

“What is it, Gran’pap?” he asked. “What did I do? Where—oh! I remember.”

Then, as his recollection grew more distinct, he exclaimed:—

“I’m not to go to jail, Gran’pap! Did you hear ’em say so? I’m not to go to jail!”

The horrible nightmare of imprisonment that had brooded over his pillow for weeks had suddenly vanished, and he could not contain himself for joy.

“No, Dannie,” replied the old man, gently, “no, not to jail. They’ve no call to punish you. You’ve borne a thousand times too much already. We’ll go home, Dannie. Can you get up? Can you get on your feet? Can you walk? There, that’s it. Hang on to my arm, so! We’ll go home.”

“Father!”

It was Charlie Pickett who spoke. The old man did not heed him.

“Father!”

The voice attracted Dannie’s attention. It had, somehow, a familiar sound. He loosened his grasp on the old man’s arm and turned to look at the speaker. Then the blood rushed into his face again. He recognized his friend of the night journey through the gap.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said, holding out his hand. “Gran’pap, this man was good to me. He was good to you, Gran’pap, an’ to those in the graveyard, an’ to all of us.”

But Abner Pickett stood speechless, with stony eyes and rigid face. Charlie turned to the tipstaff and the doctor.

“Will you kindly leave us alone together?” he asked. “It is a family matter I wish to settle. Gabriel, please close the door and guard it.”

Then they were alone together in the room; three generations, the same blood running in their veins, the same family pride swelling their hearts, the same will and grim determination shaping every act of their lives. Dannie, stunned by the revelation that had been so suddenly made to him, sank back again upon the bench, looking, with bewildered eyes, first upon one man, then upon the other. He could not yet quite comprehend it; but the joyful truth was forcing itself slowly in upon his mind that this fine, stalwart, lovable man was his father. When the door was closed, Charlie turned to the boy. Frank, impetuous, unselfish, as he had ever been, he spoke his mind.

“Dannie,” he said, “I am your father. There, sit still; wait till I am through. When you were a baby there was a matter about which your grandfather and I differed. I spoke to him unkindly and in anger. What I told him was not true. I admitted it then, I admit it to-day. He said that no person who had lied to him once should have the opportunity to do so again, and he sent me from his house and forbade me ever to return. I went, leaving you in his custody, knowing that with Aunt Martha also to care for you, you would want for nothing. For thirteen years I have done penance for that lie, but my father has not forgiven me. For thirteen years I have looked forward, day and night, to the time when I should claim you and ask you to come with me, and be my son in fact as well as in name. I am ready to take you now. I want you. Will you come?”

It was so sudden, so astounding, that Dannie could not comprehend it all at once. The bewildered look was still in his eyes.

“You—are my father?” he asked.

“Yes, Dannie.”

“Is it true, Gran’pap?”

“It is.”

The old man, standing with folded arms, his back to the door, his cheeks flushed, his lips set, with lightning veiled under the cold glitter of his eyes, looked the picture of dignified wrath.

Dannie turned again to his father.

“And—and you lied to Gran’pap?”

“Yes, Dannie, I did.”

“Is that true, Gran’pap?”

“That is true.”

The words might have come from lips of marble, they were so precise and passionless.

“Father,” exclaimed Charlie, “be just to me! Say that it was the first and last lie I ever told you. Say that afterward I acknowledged my fault, and asked your forgiveness, and you would not listen to me.”

“That is true.”

Cold as ice, clear as crystal, the answer to his son’s appeal came from the old man’s lips. For a moment there was silence, and then Dannie spoke again to his father.

“And you want me to come—to come an’ live with you?”

There was a tremor of joy in the boy’s voice at the very thought of such happiness as this.

“I do. I want you. I need you. I cannot live my life as I should without you.”

“Gran’pap, may I go?”

At last the supreme moment had come, the vital question had been put. Abner Pickett still stood there, motionless, with folded arms.

“You may choose,” he said, “between him and me. I shall have no divided allegiance. If you go with him, you can say good-by to me to-day for all time.”

Never before had he so veiled the passion in his heart with calm utterance of words. But if his speech was cool, it was determined. He meant what he said to the last degree. He wanted far more from his son than a mere acknowledgment of his fault, and a petition for forgiveness. It was not enough to come to him with bowed head and penitent words. He wanted the prodigal to prostrate himself in the dust at his father’s feet, to yield everything, to receive nothing. Strange he did not know that a Pickett never had done that, never could do it, never would do it; that even in the confession of a fault, the Pickett pride would never humble itself more deeply than honor and conscience might demand. Yet here was this old man, in his own pride and stubbornness, choosing to give up absolutely and forever his choicest living treasure, rather than yield one jot or tittle of the stern law he had laid down thirteen years before. Charlie Pickett was not deceived by his father’s calmness. He well knew that if Dannie came with him it would be outlawry for the boy from the old home; it would be the breaking of every tie that bound him to his grandfather’s heart and hearth. He knew what they had been to each other—those two—could he bend himself to the severance of those sweet relations? Would it not be cruelty to both of them? And yet—and yet he wanted so to have his son.

On Dannie’s face the lights and shadows fell alternately. He knew not what to say or to do. How could he choose between these two?—between the father who had come suddenly into his life like a dream of light and sweetness, and the grandfather who had loved him and cared for him, and had been his comrade and playfellow from babyhood. Charlie Pickett, looking on his son’s face, saw there the agony of indecision, and his heart melted. Tears sprang to his eyes, and his voice choked with emotion.

“Father,” he said, “I yield. He shall stay with you. It is right, it is just. Some day, when I am old and alone and need him, as you do now, I will call and he will come to me. Go with him, Dannie. Be good to him, as he has been to you. Good-by! Good-by, my lad,—good-by!”

He lifted the boy from the bench, clasped him to his breast, kissed him once and again, and then gently placed him at his grandfather’s side. He turned to the door, unclosed it and held it wide open, standing with bowed head and trembling lips and tear-dimmed eyes, while the old man and his grandson, hand in hand, passed out into the corridor.

At the head of the staircase Dannie stopped, turned, and ran swiftly back into the jury room. He leaped sobbing into his father’s arms.

“Father!” he cried, “Father, I’m goin’ to bring you an’ Gran’pap together. I want you both. I need you both. I must have you both. I’m goin’ to bring you together if it takes my life to do it. I will—I will!”

Again the strong man, with tears streaming down his face, strained the boy to his heart.

“Thank you, Dannie,—thank you! And God speed the day of reconciliation. Good-by again, my boy,—good-by!”

Once more he released him, and Dannie hurried back to where his grandfather stood on the steps, fearful lest the old man might think that, after all, he had chosen to desert him. But the grim smile of triumph on Abner Pickett’s face as they passed down the staircase and out to the court-house porch, told of the satisfaction that reigned in his heart over the victory he had won, and over the fact that the boy was to be his and his alone, for years to come.

He stopped to button Dannie’s great-coat, and tie wraps about his throat and ears, and then they started out together into the snow-bound world, pushing their way through the drifts that blocked the path to the street; while Charlie Pickett, looking from an upper window, with tear-blurred eyes, watched them out of sight.