"He kissed his sister,—kissed Aunt Debby, and then he went away. They saw his face, white as a corpse, pressed against the window pane, while his eyes were riveted upon his beautiful young wife,—then the face was gone, and only the storm went sobbing past the place where he had stood. All that night the light burned on the table, and they waited his return, but from that hour to this he has not come back. He could not go to prison, and so he ran away. Mr. Graham paid the bail, and was heard to say that he was glad poor Seth escaped. I did not quite understand the matter when I was a boy, and I almost hated your father for testifying against him, but I know now he did what he thought was right. It is said he loved my Aunt Mary, Ellen’s mother, and that she loved him in return, but after this sad affair there arose a coolness between them. He went to New York and married a more fashionable woman, while she, too, chose another." "Did they ever find the money?" Jessie asked, and Walter replied: "Never, though Aunt Debby says that Heyward indulged in a new suit of clothes soon after, and gave various other tokens of being abundantly supplied. No one knows where he is now, for he left Deerwood years ago." "And your mother," interrupted Jessie, "tell me more of her." The night shadows were falling, and she could not see the look of pain on Walter’s face as he replied: "For a few days she watched to see father coming back, for suspense was more terrible than reality, and those who were his friends before said his going off looked badly. From Boston her proud relatives sent her a double curse for bringing this disgrace upon them, and then she took her bed, never to rise again. The first October frosts had fallen when they laid me in her arms and bade her live for her baby’s sake. But five days after I was born she lay dead beneath that western window where you so often sit. Then the proud mother relented and came to the funeral, but she has never been here since. Your father was present, too,—he bought the monument; he cried over me, and wished that he could fill my father’s place." "I wish he could, too," cried the impulsive Jessie, "I wish you were my brother," and she involuntarily laid her hand in his. "Have you never heard from your father?" she asked, and Walter replied: "Only once. Six months after mother died he wrote to Mr. Graham from Texas, and that is the very last. But, Jessie, I shall find him. I shall prove him innocent, and until then there will always be a load in my heart,—a something which makes me irritable, cross and jealous of those I love the best, lest they should despise me for what I cannot help." "And is that why you speak so coldly to me sometimes when I don’t deserve it?" Jessie asked, twining her snowy fingers about his own.