Ten minutes passed. Then Trundle roused himself with a start. He must not be so absent-minded; they must suspect nothing. “Whar’s the children?” he asked, not looking toward his wife. “In bed a hour ago.” Her tone struck him dumb with apprehension. He stared over his shoulder at her. Her face was hidden in her hands. He glanced at the visitor, and saw her avert her eyes. Could she have heard of the plan to whip him, and revealed it to his wife? He felt sure of it; Wade Sims could not keep a secret. His wife thought he had been punished. No matter; it was the same thing. His heart was ice. Mrs. Trundle bent nearer him. She was trying surreptitiously to see if there were any marks on his neck above his shirt-collar. Presently her pent-up emotions seemed to overwhelm her. She began to sob and rock back and forth. Then she glared at Mrs. Samuel. “I’d think you’d have the decency to go home,” she said, fiercely, “an’ not set thar an’--an’ gloat over me an’ him like a crow. It’s our bedtime.” “Why, Martha, what’s the--” Trundle stood up in bewilderment. “I was jest gettin’ ready to go,” stammered the visitor, humbly, and she hastened away. Trundle sank back on his seat. What was to be done now? He had never seen his wife that way, but he loved her more than ever in his life before. She watched Mrs. Samuel’s form vanish in the hazy moonlight; then she sat down on the step beside her husband. “Jim,” she faltered, “I want you to lay yore head in my lap.” She had put her thin, quivering arm round his neck, and her voice had never before held such tender, motherly cadences. “What do you want me to do that fer?’ “Jest becase I do. I hain’t never in all my life loved you like I do at this minute. I’d fight fer you with my last breath; I’d die fer you. Jim, poor, dear Jim! you needn’t try to hide it from me. Mis’ Samuel had jest told me what the Regulators was goin’ to do when you turned the corner. I know you went down to the spring to meet ’em so me an’ the childern wouldn’t know it. Many a man would ‘a’ gone away an’ left his family ruther than suffer such disgrace. Oh, Jim, I’d a million times ruther they’d whipped me! I ’ll never git over it. I ’ll feel that lash on my back every minute as long as I live. They hain’t none of ’em got sense enough to see what a good, lovin’ man you are at the bottom. I’d ruther have you jest like you are than like any one o’ that layout. We must move away somewhars an’ begin all over. I don’t want the childern to grow up under sech disgrace.” Her hand passed gently round to the front of his shirt. She unfastened it, and began to sob as she turned the garment down at the neck. “Oh, Jim, did they hurt you? Does it--”