During the days that had followed Katharine Allen's arrest—days so terrible that their memory could never die wholly out of the neighborhood—the old couple in the farm house beyond the widow Allen's dwelling, bore their full share of the horror and grief which oppressed all who had known and loved the girl.

But both Mr. Thrasher and his wife were bowed beneath a deeper sorrow than mere commiseration for one unfortunate creature—beneath a horror more painful than any thought of her sin.

For a time neither spoke of it. They avoided looking in each other's face—those true hearts that had never had a secret before—lest the fear that haunted their minds should find utterance in their eyes.

One night, as they sat by the kitchen fire, the old lady mechanically knitting, and her husband looking mournfully into the cheerful blaze, her thoughts found an almost unconscious utterance.

"Oh, if I could only be certain—if Nelson was only here to answer for himself."

Mr. Thrasher glanced quickly at her, then back into the fire, while the old lady let her work fall, and sat with her hands clasped in her lap, that mild, womanly face darkened by a deeper shadow than it had ever before worn.

"If I could send for him, I would," replied Mr. Thrasher, with a sternness his voice seldom took in addressing his wife. "I don't want to believe wrong of any one, but if he were here, I'd question him."

"I wouldn't," broke in the mother; "my heart would break if I was sure of it."

"It's a black thing," continued he, taking no notice of her remark, although the nervous twitching about his mouth, and the tremulous movement of his hands, proved that he had heard and shared in her feelings. "If I could look him in the eyes," he continued, the sternness creeping over his face again, "I should be answered."

"Don't think harshly of him!" returned his wife. "Don't do that! If we were to hear he was dead, remember how we should blame ourselves for any wrong feeling."

"I would rather see him lying dead yonder, where he used to sit, than know that he had tempted that poor girl into sin."

"Yes, I know. But don't talk in that way, father; don't look like that! I feel as if it wasn't you, with that frown on your face."

She put out her hand and took his. He clasped his hard fingers about hers with the faithful love of a lifetime; but the determination and gloom did not leave his features.

"I want to go down to the house," pursued the old lady, "but I've put it off—I hadn't the courage, somehow."

"Nor I," replied Mr. Thrasher; "but isn't it a dreadful thing when we are dreading to ask questions, for fear we should stand face to face with our son's crime?"

"No, no, I don't believe it! I won't believe it, father! Such cruel words are unbecoming his parents!"

"I don't mean to be cruel to you or him, wife. Was I ever so?"

"Never! You have been one of the best husbands that ever lived."

She could not longer keep back her tears—they rolled down her cheeks, and fell, drop by drop, on her apron.

"I must go to the house," she said; "who knows but what Mrs. Allen is all alone. I feel as if I had been hard-hearted in not going before."

"You'd better go," he answered. "Yes; it's your duty."

"I thought of asking you to go with me, if you don't mind. I should have more courage with you by my side."

Mr. Thrasher was silent for a moment, then he said:

"Yes; we will go to-morrow morning."

They put the subject aside; nor was it again resumed. The chapter in the Bible was read, the prayer was uttered—no trouble could make those hearts forget that duty—and, in their affliction, they only turned more earnestly toward the help and comfort of their whole lives.

The next morning, when breakfast was over, and the work for the forenoon arranged, the husband and wife took their way down the hill toward Mrs. Allen's house, keeping close together, as if great comfort lay in that silent companionship.

When they reached the gate, both paused, looking, anxiously at each other; when Mr. Thrasher saw the pale trouble which agitated his wife, he tried to say a few comforting words, but they broke on his lips.

He opened the gate, and they passed up the walk to the house. Mr. Thrasher knocked, but there was no response; a second time, but no better success.

"Maybe we might go in," whispered his wife, but he shook his head, and again tapped upon the door.

After another instant of suspense, which seemed very long to them, they heard footsteps, the latch was lifted from within, the door slowly opened, and Mrs. Allen stood before them, so changed by those terrible days, that the old friends of years could hardly feel that it was her.

When Mrs. Allen saw who stood there, she started a little, and the old pride gathered slowly over the anguish of her face.

"We—we came to ask how Katharine is," Mrs. Thrasher said, faintly, taking it upon herself to break the silence.

"She is better," returned the widow, neither moving to give them entrance, or turning her eyes from that steady gaze.

"Do you think I could see her?" persisted the old lady, trembling all over and ready to cry aloud.

"Nobody sees her but the doctor," replied Mrs. Allen.

"I thought maybe I could do something—"

"There isn't any thing to do."

Then there was another awkward silence, which Mrs. Thrasher broke, with a timidity which she could hardly overcome.

"I should like to see Katharine," she said, "very, very much." "She cannot see any one now—it is forbidden."

There were a few more faint remarks from Mrs. Thrasher, then the pair turned away. Mrs. Allen closed the door, they walked silently out of the yard and back toward their house, which had never appeared so cheerless to them.

As they passed the butternut tree both the old people turned away their heads, for the remembrance of that morning when they stood together and watched their son making signals from that very spot, for the wretched prisoner to whose presence they had been denied not half an hour before, filled their hearts with sensations which neither of them could ever express.

It was a mournful thing to see those two good souls in their bungling efforts to cheat each other into a belief that no terrible sorrow had fallen upon them. It was all a sad, sad failure.