“O Jennie!” exclaimed her mother, “why didn’t you tell us as soon as you knew it, so that we might stop him?” “He made--made me promise not to! I couldn’t help it.” Little by little, in answer to repeated questions, the narration broken by many sobs, the child gave the story of the previous day’s interview with Joe. “Jennie,” said Mr. Gaston, finally, “have you seen Joe this morning? Answer me truly.” “Ye--yes, Father.” “Where?” “Here, in the hall.” “At what hour?” “I don’t--don’t know. It was before daylight. He was just starting. I bade him good-by, and went back into my room, and he went on downstairs.” Jennie was lavish of her information this time. The questions were getting dangerously near a point she dreaded, and she hoped there would be no more of them. Alas! The very next question shook the foundation of her guilty knowledge of Joe’s apparent crime. “Jennie,” asked her father, “did you see Joe this morning after he left the house?” “Yes, Father; I looked out o’ the window, an’ saw him go down the path.” “Which way did he go when he got to the road?” asked her mother, eagerly. “He--he went off that way,” replied Jennie, faintly, “east.” “He went east, Father!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston,--“east toward the mountains, not west toward the river. It will be easier to find him, you know. And he didn’t take the horse; you see he didn’t take Charlie!” “Wait,” said Mr. Gaston, sternly. “Jennie, tell us the whole story. Do you mean to say that you saw Joe go down the path and out at the gate, and walk away toward the east?” Half-unconsciously she made a final attempt to save Joe. “No, Father, he turned around and came back up the path toward the house.” The mother asked no more questions. She instinctively felt that her worst fears were about to be realized. “Did he come back into the house?” asked the father, mercilessly. “N--no.” “Where did he go?” There was no way out of it. Jennie must tell what she had seen. “O Father!” she cried, “he came back--and then--he went into the stable.” “Did you see him come out?” “No, oh, no! But I saw him ride out through the bars on Old Charlie, and away up the road. I did, I saw him. O Joe! Oh, dear me! Oh, I wish--I wish--I was dead!” The little girl fell to wringing her hands and sobbing again with great violence, convinced that she had been the victim of unhappy circumstances, and that she had been a traitor to Joe, whom she loved dearly. Mrs. Gaston, drawing the child to her, sat on the stair-landing and said nothing; but sorrow and sympathy, struggling for the mastery in her heart, sent the bitter tears afresh to her eyes. Over the face of Joe’s father came a look that had not been there before. “I shall not follow him, Mother,” he said. “He may have the horse, but he must not come back here until he comes in sackcloth and ashes. I am sorry that I have lived to see the day when a son of mine has come to be little better than a common thief.”