Alas! the sad and heavy-hearted sorrow that was left behind on the day that little Paul went forth to his school-boy life. Twice, Mrs. Allen went into Katharine's room and sat down, pale and soul-stricken, waiting to be questioned; but her daughter had been exhausted by her conversation with the doctor, and lay with her eyes closed, weary of all things. So, drawing a deep breath from a consciousness of this reprieve, the wretched woman went away again still more heavily laden with the duty that clung to her like a vampire, and so a week passed by without another attempt. At last, toward nightfall one day, Katharine spoke:

"Mother?"

"My child."

"What is it that you are all afraid of telling me?"

"A great trouble, Katharine; something that even I, who have some courage, tremble to speak of."

"Is it about my baby, mother?"

"Yes."

"I am glad you are willing to answer me; the doctor put me off."

"But I will not put you off, my poor child."

"What is it, mother? This frightens me—your voice is husky, your face strange—did my baby die a hard death?"

"Yes, very hard. It was killed."

The voice was indeed husky that uttered these words.

Katharine rose up in the bed, her eyes grew large and wild.

"Killed?"

"Yes, God help us—it was dead and buried when we found it."

"Dead and buried; mother, mother!"

The words came forth in a sharp cry, breaking the pale lips apart and leaving them so.

"I left it alive, Katharine—sleeping by your side. Can you remember when I went out that day after a man to haul some wood from Castle Rock?"

Katharine held both hands to her temples, rocking to and fro as if the effort to think cost great pain.

"Yes, mother, I remember about the wood. You put the shawl, that David sent me, over my shoulders. The baby was asleep then, with one hand to its mouth. I took the hand away just to see it nestle; its pretty lips were moving all the time."

"What then?"

"It was a noise, mother—a trumpet sounding through the house—dead leaves, white leaves flying all about me; then, mother, then immense heaps of snow rolling, heaving, and spreading everywhere. I—I cannot remember how I got in or out of this cold whiteness. It seemed to bury me in a long sleep."

"Poor child—poor little Katharine."

"Oh, I remember you called me that when I was a very small child."

"Katharine, try; can you remember nothing more?"

"Nothing more, only as one recollects that she has been miserably asleep."

"But it was in this time, while I was away to see about that wood, that our baby was killed."

"Killed!—how?"

"Strangled."

"Mother—mother!"

The anguish of this cry made the poor woman tremble; but she must speak out all her fearful knowledge or her daughter would never be prepared for the future.

"Mother, tell me—tell me!"

The poor young creature lay gasping upon her pillow. It was a terrible scene to witness.

"It had been strangled or smothered, and buried deep in the snow, by the rocks under the butternut tree, half way to Mr. Thrasher's."

"There—there in sight of his father's house!"

She writhed in anguish on her bed, weak, fragile, tortured, it seemed as if she must die before another shock reached her.

"Dead—buried in the snow," she kept repeating.

The mother knelt by the bed, holding forth her arms, which the wretched girl could not see.

"Ask God to give you strength, Katharine."

"You ask him for me, mother; my heart aches so."

"Oh, Katharine, we have greater trouble yet to come."

"Greater trouble than the death of one's little babe—that can never be!" Katharine answered with pathetic pain. "No, no, mother, that can never be!"

"Katharine, the neighbors believe that—" she paused, put a hand to her throat, as if the words strangled her, and went on in a voice so near a whisper that it sounded unearthly, "believe that you killed the child."

"Kill my child! Did they know I was its mother?"

"Killed and buried it with your own hands in the snow," persisted the woman, drearily. "This is what they charge you with, my daughter."

"No, no, mother!"

"A jury have decided so."

"A jury! What cruel thing is that?"

"It is a court."

"A court! What was that for?"

"To say if you were innocent—"

"Guilty of murdering my own baby—his and mine! Do the neighbors want a court to prove that of me?"

"It has been held, Katharine, here under my roof."

"Held here?"

"And that is why we are never alone."

"That man—you mean that man!" cried Katharine, shrinking back in the bed with a look of affright. "Did the neighbors put him here to watch me? Why?"

"They fear you will attempt to escape!"

"Escape where? Is not this my home?"

The old woman wrung her hands in bitter agony. This scene was racking every nerve in her body. That young creature had not fully comprehended that which no mother living could have told. All her own strength was exhausted—she had no fortitude left. Katharine lay with her great, wild eyes searching her mother's face, as it fell helplessly downward upon her bosom.

"Mother, if the neighbors believe this, what will they do to me?"

"Kill you, my poor lamb!" the woman whispered.

Katharine did not seem to feel this so keenly as other things that had been said; it was beyond her comprehension—she could not realize it.

"No, mother, that can never be. God knows all things!"

The young creature almost smiled as she said this, and closing her eyes turned her face to the wall.

It was strange that, in all her trouble, she never once alluded to Thrasher with an idea of protection, or seemed to have any hope of succor from him. The letter he had sent left no impression on her memory, but some more subtle intuition possessed her soul, and this secret second-sense held all hope in check. This half supernatural feeling also had doubtless given vague after-shadowings of her child's death without absolutely awakening her consciousness, for when the terrible truth was revealed to her she seemed struggling to remember something that had gone before.

Thus the real and the visionary were so mingled in her mind that a true realization of her danger was impossible, and knowing her innocence, a sweet trust in the Divine justice sprang up in her soul, keeping out all fear.