The sight of his father and Tom and hearing of his mother’s illness had unnerved him again, and he was lying on the cot with his face buried in the pillow he knew was from his own bed. “Seeing you makes me want to go home so badly,—to mother. Oh, mother, mother,” he said at last. It was like the heart-broken cry of a child, and it seemed to the judge as if he must die if it were continued. “Don’t, my boy, don’t,” he said, passing his arm under Paul’s neck and bringing his face up to his own. “It’s not for long. I have offered ten thousand dollars for the arrest of the real man and will offer ten more if necessary. That will bring him down.” “Then you don’t think I did it, even by accident, as Mrs. Stevens says most people do?” Paul asked, and his father replied: “No, my son. I believe you told the truth when you said you knew nothing of it.” “I did, father; I did. If I knew it could save my life, I could not say differently. I was not there.” “And will prove it, too,” Tom said, his voice so full of courage and hope that Paul felt stronger himself and began to look about with some interest on what had been brought and what Tom was doing. He had spread down the handsome Persian rug on the floor in front of the cot,—had put the fine linen damask towels on the washstand, with a tilt of his nose at the tin basin and pail, and a mental note of what he would bring in their place. He laid Paul’s dressing gown on the foot of the cot with another tilt of his nose at the patchwork quilt, and with another mental memorandum. He took out Paul’s comb and brushes and soap dish,—all silver-backed and looking on the old stand as much out of harmony as the rug on the floor. “I brought you this,” he said, holding up the hand glass. “Everybody wants to see himself, if he is in prison. To-morrow I’ll bring a bigger one, with more things. We’ll have you in good shape while you stay here.” He was very cheerful, and both the judge and Paul felt the magnetism of his cheerfulness. Clarice’s name had not been mentioned, nor that of any one except his mother, but she was in Paul’s mind, and when he could trust himself he asked: “Does Clarice know where I am and what they charge me with?” “Yes, she knows. Everybody knows. The whole town is up in arms. She takes it hard,” Tom said. “Does she believe it?” was Paul’s next question. “No. Nobody believes it,” was Tom’s reply, and Paul continued: “Yes, they do. They believe I did it accidentally. Does Clarice think so?” “Certainly not. She knows you didn’t,” Tom said, unhesitatingly, without in the least knowing what Clarice believed or didn’t believe.