IT oftentimes comes in this world that cares and troubles fall upon one, not in one deadly blow, but in stroke after stroke, as though to bear the man to the earth with their constant beating. Surely men’s souls are of tough fibre that they can so bend beneath such blows, beaten down only to rise again, bruised, wounded, but living. There is within a man a courage bred of hope that lives even in the darkest moments; a courage that lifts him up again out of the dust and supports him along his way, lame and sore, perhaps, but not broken down utterly.

So it was with Tom. Bitter troubles had come upon him during the past year and a half, and the bitterest and darkest of all had fallen upon him the day before. Still more were to come, and yet he has lived through these and others until his life has covered a span of nigh four score and ten, and at the end of them all he can still say that life is a pleasant thing.

Tom was up at the peep of day, for there were some things that he wished to take with him, and the packing of them must be done before breakfast time. He was to leave on the Enterprise stage, which passed the house about eight o’clock.

Little was said amongst the members of the family during breakfast time, and only a few words were spoken about his going. Half-past seven came and then Tom stood up and kissed his mother and Susan. Susan clung to him weeping; his mother’s eyes were full of tears, but they did not flow over.

“The Lord bless thee, my son!” said she, with trembling lips. These were all the words that she spoke.

“Come, Thomas,” said his father at last; “the stage’ll soon be along, and thee’ll miss it if thee don’t look out. I’ll walk down to the road with thee.”

“Farewell, William,” said Tom, shaking hands with his brother.

“Farewell, Thomas.”

“John—”

“I guess I’ll walk down to the road with thee, Thomas. Let me carry thy bundle,” said John.

“Never mind; it’s very light,” said Tom.

They were silent as they went down the lane, and silent for a while as they stood at the roadside waiting for the stage; each was occupied with his own thoughts. At last John broke through the painful silence. “The stage is mighty late this morning,” said he, in a constrained voice.

“Thee’ll write to us, won’t thee, Thomas?” said his father, looking away as he spoke.

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Yonder’s the stage coming down Wilkes’ Hill,” said John.

But it was destined that Tom was not to go to Philadelphia that day on the Enterprise stage, or for some time to come.

“Who’s that coming up the road yonder,” said John.

“It looks like William Gaines,” said Tom’s father.

“It is Will Gaines,” said Tom.

So Will came galloping up to them, and then all three men saw from his face that he was the bearer of strange news. He leaped from his horse without a word of greeting, or without seeming to wonder why the three were standing there. His mind was too preoccupied to give attention to anything but his thoughts.

“Have you heard what’s happened?” said he.

“No.”

“What?”

Will hesitated for a moment and then said, in a solemn voice: “Isaac Naylor has been murdered!”

There was a space of dead silence.

“Isaac Naylor murdered!” said Tom’s father under his breath. Will nodded his head; he was looking straight at Tom; his face was very pale and there was a troubled, anxious look in his eyes.

“Murdered!” repeated John, mechanically, “where, when, how?”

“Ephraim Whiteley and his colored man found him at five o’clock this morning; his scull was beaten in with a piece of fence-rail!”

“My God!” cried Tom. He put his hand to his forehead, for horrible thoughts were passing through his mind. Could he—could he have killed Isaac? Was it a creation of his fancy that had left him sitting upon the rock, half strangled, but otherwise unhurt?

“Where did they find him?” said John, in a low voice.

“On the old mill road, about three hundred yards from the turnpike.”

Tom looked slowly about him; was he dreaming? Did he really hear the words that Will spoke?

The Philadelphia coach had come up to them, but no one had noticed its coming. They must have showed by their faces that something strange had happened, for the coach stopped when it came to where they were standing.

“What’s the matter?” cried old John Grundy, from the box.

“Isaac Naylor’s been murdered,” said John, in a low voice.

“My Lord! Isaac Naylor murdered!” Then, after a moment’s pause—“Where?—How?—When?” A half a dozen heads were thrust out of the coach windows by this time—they all listened in silence while John repeated that which Will had just told them. The coach went on down the road, but it did not take Tom with it.

Then Will turned to Tom—“Tom, I want to speak to you for a minute,” said he.

Tom stepped aside with him, without answering.

Will was holding his horse by the reins; he did not speak for a moment or two, but stood as though thinking what to say.

“Tom, have you seen Isaac Naylor since you’ve come back?” said he, at last.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Tom hesitated before he spoke.

“Where?” said Will, again.

“At—at the place where they found him this morning,” said Tom. He looked straight at Will as he spoke, but Will turned his eyes away.

“Tom,” said he, “there’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Mine!”

“Yes; yours, Tom. I expect the constable’s on his way from Eastcaster now. Anyway, there’s no time to lose. Here’s a horse ready for you; jump on her and leave the country!”

“Will.”

“Well; what is it?”

“Do you believe that I killed Isaac Naylor?”

Will did not answer, but stood looking fixedly on the ground.

“Never mind; I don’t ask you to answer me, Will. I’ll tell you, however, that I did not do it. I’ll stay and face the music.”

Then Tom turned and called his father and John. “Father—John—did you hear what Will said?”

“No.”

“He said that there’s a warrant out against me for this thing.”

“A warrant out against thee?”

“Yes.”

“But thee hasn’t seen Isaac Naylor since thee came home, Thomas,” said his father.

“Yes, I did, father.”

“Where?”

“At the very place where he was murdered.”

Then he told all that had passed between him and Isaac Naylor, and of how near he had come to doing that of which he was accused. His father listened without a word, looking deeply and fixedly into Tom’s eyes the while. John was looking intently at him, too. Will was standing, turned half away. When Tom had ended, his father spoke to him in a low voice:

“Thomas.”

“Well?”

“Is—is that all? Has thee told us all?”

“Yes, father.”

“Why didn’t thee speak of it before?”

“I couldn’t bear to do it. I was afraid to tell how I had treated him—an overseer in the meeting.”

Tom’s heart crumbled within him at the silence that followed his words.

“Father,” he said, “so help me God, my hands are clean of this thing. Does thee suppose I’d have come home if I’d done it?”

“Wait a minute, Thomas; I’m thinking,” said his father. He stood picking at his finger-tips, and looking earnestly at them. At last he raised his head. “I don’t believe that thee did do it, Thomas. I can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I!” burst out John. “My brother couldn’t do a thing like that. My mother’s son couldn’t kill a man. I don’t believe it, and I can’t believe it!”

The tears sprang into Tom’s eyes at these words. He looked at Will, but Will’s head was still turned away. “Here comes the constable,” said he, at last, in a low voice.

A horse and gig had come up from behind Stony-Brook Hill. When it reached the level road between them and the crest of the rise the nag broke into a trot.

“Yes, that’s Johnson’s team,” said John, and then he turned his head away.

They all stood silently until at last the gig came up to where they were. The constable and his deputy were both in it. The constable drew up the horse, and threw the reins to the deputy. Then he stepped out and came over to where the others were standing, drawing a paper out of his breast-pocket as he did so. He had not said a word up to this time.

“I know what you’re coming for,” said Tom; “I’m ready to go with you, Johnson.”

“The Lord knows—I’d rather lose a hundred dollars, than have to do this,” said the constable.

“I believe you would,” said Tom.

“Can thee wait a little while, Eben?” said Tom’s father; “I’d like to drive over to Squire Morrow’s along with you. I’ll slip up to the house and gear Nelly to the wagon; it won’t take me a minute.”

The constable drew a watch out of his fob, and looked at it. “I guess I can wait a little bit, Mr. Granger,” said he; “the witnesses weren’t all at the squire’s when I left. You’ll have to step into the gig though, Tom, and I’ll—I’ll have to put cuffs on you.”

“Will you have to do that?”

“I’m afraid I will;”—he drew the hand-cuffs out of his pocket as he spoke; there was a sharp “click! click!” and Tom felt the cold iron circling his wrists.

His father groaned, and when Tom looked at him, he saw that his face was as white as wax. He turned, and he and John walked slowly up the lane toward the house.

Then Tom stepped to the gig, and climbed in beside the deputy constable. Johnson went to the roadside, and sat down on the bank. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands hanging clasped together between them. Will stood leaning against the pailing fence, and nothing was said, excepting once when the constable spoke to his deputy.

“Better turn the hoss, Jos; you won’t have to do it then when Mr. Granger and John come back.”

After a while they saw John drive the farm-wagon over from the stable to the house. William was sitting beside him and presently Tom’s father came out of the house and climbed slowly into it. Then they drove down the road to where the others were waiting.

“Father, how did mother take the news?” said Tom.

“Very well! Very well! Better than I expected,” said his father, briefly; then he turned to Will: “Thee’d better go up to the house, William; I’d like thee to stay with mother and Susan while we’re gone.”

Will mounted his horse without a word, and, turning into the lane, galloped up to the house beneath the shadows of the trees.

“Are you all ready?” said the constable, standing with one foot on the step of the gig.

“All ready.”

Then he climbed in and they all drove away toward Eastcaster.