smoked with moisture, and she saw the broken limbs of the trees and the dead leaves that scurried before the wind, like the shriveled ghosts of summer. Then, just as she had given up the vigil, and sank in a disconsolate heap in the nearest chair, she heard his latch-key in the door, and running into the hall fell on his neck in a fit of hysterical weeping. “Oh, Jacob,” she sobbed, “where have you been?” “Don’t be silly!” he said crossly, and loosened her arms from his neck. “I’m dead beat; where’s Davidson? I want something.” “The servants are not up yet,” his mother faltered. “I’ll get you some whiskey and soda, dear, and I’ll ring up Davidson. I’ve been up all night.” Jacob flung himself into a chair and sat there waiting for her to bring the liquor and wait on him, as she had waited on him all his life. But, if she thought of this at all, it was only with an alarmed perception of the haggard moodiness of his expression. She saw that he had been drinking heavily already, but she dared not deny him more, and, in a way, she had faith in his own judgment in the matter. She had never known him to drink more than he was able to bear, and she did not know that Will Broughton said that Trench owed his life to Eaton’s tippling, and steadier nerves and a firmer hand would have dealt certain death. She came back at last, after a lengthy excursion to the pantry, and brought him some refreshments, arranged hastily on a little tray by hands so unaccustomed to any sick-room service that they were almost awkward. She put the things down beside him on the table and fluttered about, eager to help him and almost afraid of him, as she was in his ungracious moods. But her desire for news, the certainty that he could settle all her doubts, lent a pleasurable thrill of excitement to her trepidation. Her news from the city had been vague, and the announcement of Caleb’s acquittal had only filtered to her over a belated telephone to the housekeeper, but here was the fountainhead of all her information. Meanwhile Jacob drank the liquor, but scarcely tasted the food, and his lowering expression disfigured his usually smooth good looks. He leaned back in his chair, staring absently at the bottle, and saying nothing, though he slowly closed and unclosed his hands, a trick of his when angry or deeply distraught. His mother, seeing the gesture, experienced another throb of dismay; something had happened, something which struck at the root of things, but what? She fluttered to the window and opening the shutter let in the pale gray light of morning, and as she did it she heard the servants stirring in the wing. At last she could endure suspense no longer. “For heaven’s sake, Jacob!” she cried, “what is the matter?” He gave her a sidelong look from under heavy lids and seemed to restrain an impulse to speak out. “I suppose you know that rascal is acquitted?” he said curtly.