Captain Mason removed his hands, and turned his face, white and tear-stained, upon his friend.

"Rice, I loved that woman."

"True enough, captin; but don't think about that; there are as good fish in the sea as ever were taken out. Jest let us get hold of that scoundrel. We've got him tight now. This 'ere thing of marrying two wives is biggermy, and all the lawyers in Connecticut couldn't keep a man from State's prison if that 'ere crime is brought agin him. Come on, captin, I'll expose him."

"And Ellen—the mother of my child!" said Mason, sadly.

Rice took off his hat, and began to brush it with the sleeve of his coat.

"Yes, captin, I'm afeard we couldn't do one without the other; but the woman desarves it."

"Rice, Rice, her child is looking at you."

"And my sister is moaning her heart out in Simsbury Mines—my innocent sister. If the court had known that she was a married woman it wouldn't have been so hard with her. It was to get rid of her disgrace, they said, that she killed her child. If they had but known that there wasn't no disgrace she wouldn't have been sent to that prison. Mebby, if I was to show this certificate to the governor now, he'd let her out, and put Thrasher in her place."

Mason looked at him with heavy eyes. "His guilt would do nothing to prove her innocent; and she, the woman who was my wife, had no share in this guilt; but the disgrace will fall on her. She believed herself a widow."

"And was in a mighty hurry to get clear of the name," muttered Rice, under his breath.

Mason did not hear him, but had relapsed into the pain of his thoughts. Meantime, Jube had come slowly down from the apple tree, and stood before them, smiling and softly rubbing his hands. This cheerful unconsciousness of every thing but joy, at seeing his best friends, in the negro, was a new pang to Mason. He spoke kindly to the poor fellow, and that was all. In a moment he had relapsed into gloom again. Paul pulled Jube by his garments, and drew him on one side. When the two came back Jube's face was sombre like the rest. He could not comprehend the entire case, but knew that some wrong had been done to his benefactor, and this wounded his heart to the core.

Rice came closer to Mason, and drew him aside.

"Captin, will it make you happier if I let this villain go, and never say a word about it?"

Mason started.

"I don't know, Rice. I am so bewildered nothing seems real; not even my child there."

"I can search him out. He's in this country, that I feel sure about. They must be living together somewhere, either in York State or——"

Mason started as if an adder had stung him.

"Living together!"

There was fire enough in his heart then. It flashed from his eyes, and made every nerve in his body tremble. "Living together!" he repeated, with sickening pain. "Tear them apart, Rice. She has no moral guilt now, but it may come to that. Tear him from her side. He is your sister's husband—she was my wife! Drag them asunder! I could not see her living with that man, without tearing him all to pieces! No, no; if the choice is guilt or disgrace, let the shame come. I can bear it. My little girl—God help us—she can bear it."

Rose began to cry, and creeping up to her father, nestled her little hand in his.

"Don't, father; she'll come back again, if you only ask her!"

Mason grasped the little hand till Rose almost cried out with the pain, but she was a brave child, and gave no sign that she was hurt.

At last Mason addressed Rice more composedly, but still in a trembling voice.

"Where was this thing done, Rice?"

"In that house. The minister himself married them. All the family saw it, Jube and Paul among the rest."

"Is there a register?"

"Yes, you can read it."

"I will."

They went into the house together, slowly, like men walking at a funeral. Jube and the children followed with downcast looks, wondering what terrible thing had happened, when Rose ought to be so glad now that her father had come back.

The minister and his little wife were in great trouble when their guests came back to the house, she had evidently been weeping, and really felt as if some inevitable disgrace had fallen upon the sacred character of her husband. He was terribly bewildered, and with the fragments of a half finished sermon in his head, found great difficulty in comprehending the true state of the case. When it really got fastened on his intelligence, the shock was powerful in its effects; he could not be persuaded that some stain might not rest upon him, and that he ought not on the very next Sunday to acknowledge himself a grave sinner before the entire congregation.

It was a sad visit, both to the father and child. At the moment they sprang to each other's embrace, this fearful intelligence had thrust them apart, and after this, all their endearments were given in tears. Rose felt as if there were something wrong in claiming the caresses of her own father, and it seemed as though her little heart would break when he put her aside, afraid that she would be terrified by the groans that no effort of his could entirely suppress.

They parted in sadness, for years, if not for ever. During all her sweet girlhood, the minister's wife was all the mother Rose must henceforth know; as for the father, how bitterly did he regret the kindness which had spared his life, and healed his wounds among the negroes of St. Domingo. What was he now but a wronged, desolate man, worse than widowed, worse than childless, for to him the very memory of affection had become a pain.

As they went from the house, Rice wrung his captain's hand. "You will let me punish the man?" he said, pleading for the justice that was his by right.

"Punish him, but spare her—spare my child. Separate them quietly; and if it must be—if she is not willing to leave him—tell her that I am alive. If she falls dead at your feet, tell her the truth. But if she gives him up, leave her in peace."