"Yes," I repeated. "But--but, mother----" "Well?" "Will he be caught--the man who killed father?" I asked timidly. "Oh, I hope he will!" Her lips parted slowly, and she laughed--a bitter, hysterical laugh, which seemed to me the most awful sound I had ever heard. "Hope! Yes; you may hope--hope if you will!" she cried; "but remember this, boy: If your hope comes true, it will be an evil day for you and for me! Remember!" Then she turned and walked to the door without another word. I sat in bed and watched her piteously, with a great lump in my throat and a sore heart. The moonlight was pouring in through my latticed window, falling full upon the long, graceful lines of her stately figure and her hard, cold face. I was forlorn and unhappy, but to look at her froze the words upon my lips. Merciless and cruel her features seemed to me. There was no pity, no love, not a shadow of response to my half-formed, appealing gesture. I let her go and sank back upon my pillows, weeping bitterly, with a deep sense of utter loneliness and desolation. On the following day I was allowed to leave my room and very soon I was able to get about. As my mother had anticipated, many people asked me questions concerning the events of that hideous night. To one and all my answer was the same. I remembered nothing. My illness had left my memory a blank. Long afterwards I saw more clearly how well it was that I had obeyed my mother's bidding. A brief extract from a county newspaper will be sufficient to show what the universal opinion was concerning my father's murder. I copy it here: "In another column will be found an account of the inquest on the body of George Morton, farmer, late of Rothland Wood Farm. The verdict returned by the jury--namely, 'Wilful murder against John Francis'--was, in the face of the evidence, the only possible one; and everyone must unite in hoping that the efforts of the police will be successful, and that the criminal will not be allowed to escape. The facts are simple and conclusive. "It appears from the evidence of Mr. Bullson, landlord of the George Hotel, Mellborough, and of several other _habitués_ of the place, that only a few days before the deed was committed, there was a violent dispute between deceased and Francis and that threats were freely used on both sides. On the night in question Francis started from Rothland village shortly after nine o'clock, with the intention of making his way through the wood to Ravenor Castle. Owing, no doubt, to the extraordinary darkness of the night, he appears to have lost his way, and to have been directed by Mrs. Morton, who noticed him wandering about near her garden gate.