He had been told that when the news reached her she had shrieked so loud that she was heard a block away, and had then gone into convulsions. He had heard, too, that Elithe had turned as white as marble when her aunt came with the intelligence of Paul’s arrest, and had not spoken since. He did not mean to mention her name to Paul, knowing that what she saw and heard was the pivot on which public opinion hung. But Paul spoke of her and said: “Elithe says she saw me. I wish she would come here and tell me why she thought it was I.” “They say she’s like a dead lump, and would give the world if she had held her tongue,” Tom replied, feeling more pity for poor little Elithe, white and still and dumb with pain and terror, than for Clarice in screaming hysterics. These would wear themselves out, but Elithe would grow steadily worse with the dread of the trial and the witness stand before her. “Tell her not to feel so badly, but come and see me. Maybe I can convince her it was not I whom she saw,” Paul said. He did not say “Tell Clarice to come.” He was as sure of _her_ coming as he was of his mother’s. Both might be there to-morrow, and this thought buoyed him up when he at last said good-night to his father and Tom, and heard the key turn in the lock to let them out and turn again to shut him in. The few touches Tom had given to his room had made a difference in his physical comfort, while his father’s confident words, emphasized by Tom, had given him hope, and his heart was not so heavy when he knelt down by his bed and asked that he might be freed at once, —that God, who knew his innocence, would not suffer him to be brought to trial. When he thought of that he recoiled with a feeling as if pins were piercing every nerve. “I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t. A prisoner in the dock, with the people looking at me and Elithe swearing against me. Oh, God! please save me from that!”