David did not answer. He had sat down once more on the low bench. His thoughts had passed beyond himself; he sat once more beside his father's body here in the church. He experienced again that paralyzing horror of death, the passionate desire to shield his poor father from the curious eyes of Millerstown, his rage at the wild, dusty figure in the gallery. He remembered William Koehler as he had seen him later in the corner of the poorhouse garden, waving his arms, struggling like some frantic creature striving to break the bonds which held him. He saw the face of Alvin, empty, dissatisfied, vain. He remembered the little house, its poverty, its meanness. He remembered how he had called upon God to prove Himself to him by punishing Alvin Koehler's father. David was proud no more. "Come, David!" urged the squire again, returning; and this time David followed him, through the church, out into the warm June night. Cinder was being dumped at the furnace, the sky flushed suddenly a rosy red, then the glow faded, leaving only the silvery moonlight. It was only nine o'clock; pleasant sounds rose from the village, the laughter of children, the voice of some one singing. Millerstown was going on in its quiet, happy way. At Grandfather Gaumer's all was dark; the house stood somberly among its pine trees; the garden still breathed forth its lovely odors. The two men proceeded into the little office of the squire, and there the squire lit his lamp and both sat down. Trembling, David drew from his pocket the paper which the squire had found with the silver vessels. John Hartman had expected that long before the silver service was discovered the threatening letter would be destroyed. But here it lay in his son's hand, its fiber intact. It had caused John Hartman hideous suffering; it was to hide it that he had given his life's happiness; here now it lay in the hand of David. Slowly David unfolded the yellowed sheet and looked at it. The squire, startled by a cry, turned from the door he was locking against possible intruders. David's blond head lay on the squire's desk, the paper beside it. "What is it, David?" David held out the paper, his face still hidden. The squire felt for his spectacles, his hand shaking. Here now was the explanation of this strange mystery, a mystery thought to be forever inexplicable. Why had John Hartman done this thing? The squire held his breath in suspense. But the squire read no answer to his questions. The paper, old and yellowed and flabby to the touch, could be scrutinized forever, held to the light, magnified, but it told nothing. On it only a few words were legible, a portion of those written by John Hartman as he sat by the roadside in his misery long ago. "My dear little boy." "My poor Cassie." There was one fragment of a sentence. "What shall I--" and there all ended. The squire looked at the paper solemnly. The mystery had only thickened.