This meeting between the lovers was singularly undramatic. Each shrank a little from the other. They shook hands quietly. His was burning; her's like a swamp in October dew. He sat down beside her on the bench awkwardly, while the deputy looked at them with careless curiosity. He was used to nothing but tragedy and crime, and to his experienced mind the two had become long ago confused. "Mother?" asked Isaac, nervously moving his feet. "Didn't she get my letter?" The girl nodded gravely, tried to meet his eyes, and then looked away. Tears fell unresisted down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them off. It was as if she were too well acquainted with them to check their flow. Then the truth began to filter through Isaac's bewebbed intellect. He spread his knees apart, rested his arms upon them, and bent his head to his hands. His great figure shook. "Oh, my God!" he sobbed. "My God! My God!" "Oh, don't, Isaac, don't!" Abbie put her hand upon his head as if he had been her boy. "Your mother was as happy as could be. She was happy to die. We buried her yesterday!" How could she tell him that his mother had died of grief--too sorely smitten to bear it--for his sake? But Isaac's head rose and fell--rose and fell rhythmically between his hands. His breath came in low groans, like that of an animal smitten dead by a criminally heavy load. "She sent her love before she passed away. She wanted you to come back to the farm as soon as you could. She believed in you, Ikey, even if you were in prison. She said Paul was in prison, and that it was a terrible mistake. She knew your father's son would not depart from his God!" As Abbie uttered this simple confession of country faith, the pitiful man lifted up his eyes from the tiled floor and looked at her gratefully. His dry lips moved, and he tried to speak. "Yes," was all he said, with fierce humility. Then the lack of breath choked him. "She made me promise not to give you up, and to come and see you. Of course you are innocent, Ikey?" Abbie did not look at him. "Yes," he answered mechanically. "I know," she said softly. Of what use were more words? They would only beat like waves against the granite of his broken heart. The two sat silent for a time. Then Abbie said, "I must go." She edged a little towards him, and touched his coat. "When will you come out? I will explain it all to the minister and the neighbors. We will be married as soon as you come home. She wanted us to! Oh, Ikey! Oh, Ikey! My poor--poor boy!" Isaac arose unsteadily. It was time for her to go, for the turnkey had nodded to him.