For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in, and described the execution; and while they talked, the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They told how the youth had written a long letter to his mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one; “they tell me she used to live in this neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the name of Mary Williams?” The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand, as he gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was he _her_ son? God forgive me! Was he _her_ son?” And the strong man laid his head upon the table and wept. There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t know she was a friend of yours.” The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl; and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of berries. And so she was _his_ mother? I remember now there was something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.” Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker. Whatever might have been the motive, she said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enough to suppose the young man _had_ a mother; and other mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as well as this Mary Williams.” He only answered by shaking his head slowly, and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! and so he was _her_ son.” Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings are prone to dwell on all that excites strong emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured up no smiling visions of juvenile love; and he strove to fortify his father’s relenting feelings, by placing in a strong light all the arguments in favour of the prisoner’s guilt. The juryman was glad to be thus fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured voice, “At all events, I did my duty.” Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked at him despairingly from the evening air, and came between him and the sunshine. But time, which softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre into dim distance; and Mr. Barker’s faculties were again completely absorbed in making money for his son.