I visited Radnor in the Kennisburg jail on the morning of my uncle's funeral and found him quite broken in spirit. He had had time to think over the past, and with his father lying dead at Four-Pools, it had not been pleasant thinking. Now that it was too late, he seemed filled with remorse over his conduct toward the old man, and he dwelt continually on the fact of his having been unwilling to make up the quarrel of the night before the murder. In this mood of contrition he mercilessly accused himself of things I am sure he had never done. I knew that the jailer was listening to every word outside, and I became unspeakably nervous for fear he would say something which could be twisted into an incriminating confession. He did not seem to comprehend in the least the danger of his own position; he was entirely taken up with the horror of his father's death. As I was leaving, however, he suddenly grasped my hand with tears in his eyes. "Tell me, Arnold, do people really believe me guilty?" I knew by "people" he meant Polly Mathers; but I had not had an opportunity to speak with her alone since the day of the tragedy. "I haven't talked to anyone but the sheriff," I returned. "Mattison would be glad enough to prove it," Radnor said bitterly, and he turned his back and stood staring through the iron bars of the window, while I went out and the jailer closed the door and locked it. All through the funeral that afternoon I could scarcely keep my eyes from Polly Mathers's face. She appeared so changed since the day of the picnic that I should scarcely have known her for the same person; it seemed incredible that three days could make such a difference in a bright, healthy, vigorous girl. All her youthful vivacity was gone; she was pale and spiritless with deep rings beneath her eyes and the lids red with crying. After the services were over, I approached her a moment as she stood in her black dress aloof from the others at the edge of the little family burying-ground. She greeted me with a tremulous smile, and then as her glance wandered back to the pile of earth that two men were already shoveling into the grave, her eyes quickly filled with tears. "I loved him as much as if he were my own father," she cried, "and it's my fault that he's dead. I made him go!" "No, Polly, it is not your fault," I said decisively. "It was a thing which no one could foresee and no one could help." She waited a moment trying to steady her voice, then she looked up pleadingly in my face. "Radnor is innocent; tell me you believe it." "I am sure he is innocent," I replied. "Then you can clear him--you're a lawyer. I know you can clear him!" "You may trust me to do my best, Polly." "I hate Jim Mattison!" she exclaimed, with a flash of her old fire. "He swears that Rad is guilty and that he will prove him so. Rad may have done some bad things, but he's a good man--better than Jim Mattison ever thought of being."