He took the revolver and went down the stairs, while Miss Hansford, not knowing what she was doing, sat down in the middle of the deep chest, with the lid still open and the linen sinking under her weight, until her feet scarcely touched the floor. It was not a very comfortable position, but she did not mind it, and as she could not well rock back and forth, she rocked from side to side, repeating to herself, “At the most, manslaughter!” That meant imprisonment for Paul for a longer or shorter period. Her boy,—her Paul,—whom, until she knew Elithe, she loved better than any one in the world. She couldn’t bear it. God wouldn’t allow it; if he did, she’d—— Here she stopped, appalled at her defiance of her Maker. “Forgive me; I don’t know what I’m saying, nor how I’m to get out of this pesky place,” she moaned, as she sank deeper into the chest. Elithe solved the last difficulty by coming to the rescue and laughing in spite of herself as she saw her aunt’s doubled-up position. “I don’t see how you can laugh,” she said, as she got upon her feet. “I don’t feel as if I should ever laugh again. Somebody has blabbed. They’ve got the pistol, with his name on it. Nothing will save him now. It’ll be manslaughter, at least, and that means hair shaved off and striped clothes and prison fare for I don’t know how long.” Elithe made no reply, nor was she surprised, for how could a dozen people be expected to keep silent? Going to her room, she sat down to think. If anything were done to Paul, she would be subpoenaed as chief witness, and she felt she would rather die than appear against him. “What could I say except that I saw him, for I did. God help me!” she cried, in a paroxysm of pain more acute than that of her aunt, because on her the heavier burden would fall if Paul Ralston were arrested. Many people came to the cottage that day, asking questions concerning the events of Sunday night, but receiving no satisfaction. “I know next to nothing, and, if I did, I should keep it to myself,” were Miss Hansford’s evasive replies. The next day fewer people came, and those who did neither asked questions nor gave information. Something in Miss Hansford’s attitude precluded both. On Thursday no one came. This was to have been the wedding day, and, as if sorrowing for the life ended so tragically and the wrecked happiness of Paul and Clarice, the skies shed showers of tears, which kept every one indoors, with a feeling as if a great funeral were passing through the rain-swept streets. Outside, the air was heavy and damp,—inside, the moral atmosphere was charged with a feeling that something was going to happen when _he_ came home, and while many wished he might never come, all were on the _qui vive_ for his coming. On Sunday those who were at church told everybody they met who did not already know it that Judge Ralston and wife were in Boston and would be home on Monday and that Paul and the Percys were coming on Wednesday.