A heavy cloud rested on all who dwelt within the mansion of Waverdale. The servants of the establishment, from butler to stable-boy, from housekeeper to scullery-maid, entertained a true affection and regard for their kind-hearted and open-handed young master, and one and all were in genuine distress. Squire Fuller, in a long and anxious conference with his son, in which his own first agonising doubts were removed and Philip’s innocence of the dreadful charge made clear to himself, sat by his waning lamp far into the night. He was in sad straits. The events of the morning, when he had threatened to disinherit his boy, and now this new and grievous trouble, bowed his spirit to the ground. His son’s erratic and mortifying connection with the Methodists, the awfully damning evidence against him as to the dark deed of Thurston Wood, the humiliating publicity which would drag his honoured name through the mire of disgrace: these things, coupled with the deep, strong love he had for Philip, stung his soul to the quick. He had discarded religion, had imbibed a strong unbelief in and contempt for prayer, and yet such is the native instinct of the soul to cry unto the Lord in distress, that he could not refrain from groaning aloud, “Lord, save my boy!” Thus the hours passed, until, worn-out and weary, he slumbered in his chair. Waking as the grey light of morning peeped through the heavy window curtains, he rose with a bitter sigh and sought his chamber. Passing Philip’s bedroom door, he paused as he heard a voice within, “Don’t! father, don’t! Dear father! Lucy, my darling! Farewell! Adam Olliver, you have given me a Saviour! Give me a father! What’s this? Blood! Morris! I didn’t do it! Oh! oh! oh!”