"He was in some trouble, poor Hartman was," said he. "He was in great trouble. I wish he had come to me in his trouble." Again and again the squire turned the paper over in his hand, still he found nothing but the few, scattered words. "I think I will ask Katy to come over," said he. "Perhaps she can remember something more of this." David did not lift his head to answer; he did not hear what the squire said. He tried desperately to control himself, to decide what must next be done. When Katy came in with the squire, he was startled almost out of his senses and sprang up hastily. Of all the ignominy of his life Katy had been a witness. Katy had not gone to bed to stay, but had only hurled herself down once more upon her oft-used refuge. It was evident that she had shed many tears. The squire drew her to a seat beside him on the settle and kept hold of her. It was always natural for any one who was near Katy to find her hand or to touch the curls on her neck or to make her more comfortable with one's arm. To David, as she sat by the squire, she was an impregnably fortressed and cruel judge. Again Katy told her story--all her story, her running away, her talking with William Koehler, her falling asleep, her sight of the shining cup. "You say he _pushed_ it in, Katy?" "He had it in his hand and he dropped it in quickly. Then he--he sent me away. I am sure I ought not to have been in the church; it was all right for him to send me away. I remembered it all but the shining cup. If gran'mom was alive, she could tell you how I came running home." "And you never told any one?" "I spoke often of his having sent me home," explained Katy. "But I never remembered about the shining cup until the preacher came to see David's mother. Then I couldn't tell David,--I _couldn't_ tell him! But perhaps it isn't there; perhaps even if he had the cup in his hand he hadn't anything to do with the other; perhaps--" "The silver is there," said the squire sadly. "We found it in the bottom of the pit." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Katy. David looked at her coldly. She sat with her curly head hidden against the squire's shoulder. David wished that she would go, that she would remove herself far from him, forever. He had suffered this evening to the limit of endurance. "You did your duty," said he in the tone learned at college. "You needn't feel any further responsibility." Thus propelled, Katy rose and checked her tears and passed out of the squire's office. When she had gone, David took up his burden manfully, though somewhat savagely. David was proud once more, but the pride was that of honor, not of haughtiness. John Hartman had had a code of honor; it was that which had broken his heart. Millerstown had a similar code of honor. By inheritance or by observation had David learned the way of a just man. "Now," said he, "we will find Alvin." "To-night, David?" "Yes, to-night." "But Alvin will know nothing!" "But we will find Alvin."